The Student In Question
by Jan. McNeville
Summary: Okay, the student and professor fancy each other. This is great. With Yankees at Hogwarts, the coming war, Moldy-Voldy in all his ickyness and a good splash of alcohol, what happens?
1. The Student In Question

A/N: Of course, I own nothing. J.K.  Rowling's got all the Harry Potter stuff, a whole bunch of either dead, licensed or geriatric rock & roll people own the music, and my editor owns the dog. I haven't got a dog. I have kittens. They love getting bits of paper to play with and bat at, so please read and review! Flames will be used to line the hamster cage after being read and obsessed over and eventually laughed at if they're silly. 

Oh, and if it seems like a few of the characters are really freakin' relevant to my other HG/SS story, like last names match and suddenly a lot of Snape's mean cracks make sense…yeah. They're supposed to. I just got enough pleading emails for an explanatory prequel that I decided to write it. Here you go.

The Student In Question- Chapter One:

"I have _whom_ for a six-year project?" Snape exploded.

"You're _complaining_ why?" Professor McGonagall replied acidly, still a little disappointed that the student in question had chosen a Potions project 'as a challenge.' "You know as well as the entire faculty that she's brilliant, and if you give her so much as a sneer –yes, _that_ one that makes you look like a hippogriff!" the infuriated deputy headmistress gestured toward the professor's hawkish nose even as he sneered. "I have been _waiting_ for an excuse to duel with you for the past six years and don't _think_ that I won't find out anything and _everything_ that goes on with her!"

Wow. She was ticked. Snape wondered just who had put glue on her scratching post. He was actually about to ask why when the Headmaster stopped giggling and stood up, hot cocoa mug in hand.

"Now, Minerva, Severus was just –er, surprised about Miss Granger's interest. After all, she is the first student to request his subject outside of Slytherin since…I believe Penelope Clearwater asked for him."

"This had better not be a repeat of _that_ little episode, Severus!" McGonagall fumed. Snape, making a decision in the interest of his own self-preservation from Catwoman, swallowed his pride and agreed with Albus in a silky voice:

"My thoughts exactly, Minerva. I am certain Miss Granger will not be so easily deterred by hard work or an ingredient allergy. I was merely as Albus says, surprised."

"See? He'll behave, won't you, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, as if the professor were his puppy.

"He'd bloody well _better_," McGonagall said darkly before excusing herself. Dumbledore sank into a chair, looking absolutely drained from the shock of a ticked-off McGonagall.

"Dare I even ask?" Snape asked.

"She found out about how Mr. Potter's Muggle relatives were treating him…again. She personally sent an owl authorizing him to stay with the Weasleys, and I found half my private stash of cocoa turned into coffee grounds."

"So she's mad at you as well?"

"I had him staying there. It's likely the couch for me for a month."

Severus shuddered. As long as he had known about Albus and Minerva, the mental pictures still gave him the squickies. 

"And you insist on calling me a glutton for punishment."

"Severus," the older man sighed, getting another mug. "You have no idea how it pains me to see you alone after all of this. I can understand the enjoyment of solitude, but for Merlin's sake, you could at least show an interest in companionship!"

"And wind up sentenced to the couch everytime I was sarcastic with my students?"

It was Albus' turn to shudder.

"I'm not saying you need to get –well, you _do_, but that's not the point of things. Make a friend, join a dueling club, anything!" The Headmaster handed his friend a steaming mug of slightly coffee-smelling hot cocoa. "Now, there again, maybe not a _dueling_ club…"

"Are you saying my habits worry you?"

"Severus, your habits have given me bad dreams since the eighties -not that your clothing at the time didn't anyway- I just think you spend too much time alone between missions. You need someone to talk to about all of this."

"And risk the Death Eaters' innermost secrets to the ear of an amateur?" Snape asked, sarcasm as thick as the cocoa smell.

"Severus!" the headmaster cried in exasperation. "I'm giving you six months starting the first day of school. Either you show some sign of more than social dormancy, or… I'm getting you a pet!"

"A _pet?"_ Snape asked in abject horror.

"Yes, a pet, Severus! A _cute, fluffy_ pet with dear little pointy ears!"

"Can't I just buy a quetzal or something?"

"Not cute enough. You need people. Would you like some marshmallows?" 

Snape sighed and held out his mug for a sprinkling of the pillowy white things. This was only the latest of Albus' threats to make him act a little less like a lonely boggart. Last year the threat of being submitted to 'Witch Weekly's personals had resulted in a tenuous semi-friendship with Remus Lupin. At least that had worked out well, even if the werewolf was worse at chess than Professor Sprout.

"Now about the sixth-year projects," Dumbledore began. Snape sipped his cocoa and suddenly spat.

"Thuck!" 

"She's a Gryffindor, not the bloody bubonic plague!"

"No, the marthmallowth," Snape explained, wiping his tongue with his sleeve in disgust. "Minerva must have thwitched them with mothballth."

"Yuck!" Snape raised an eyebrow. After all, what he had said was close enough to that. "Anyway, about Miss Granger's project-"

"'Don't poison, hit, hex, curse, or transfigure the students into ferrets.' I know. I get this lecture every other day-"

"What I was going to say, Severus," Dumbledore gave the younger man one of his best twinkly-eyed smiles. "I think you should challenge her."

"You want me to- I get to _what?"_ Snape instantly became more sarcastic than ever, quasi-smiling beatifically in a cruel imitation of Flitwick. "Can I _truly_, Albus?"

"If you can manage it," Albus replied dryly. Sometimes sarcasm was really wasted on the old. "Hermione only chose Potions because she wants a challenge and I expect you to rise to it. This does _not_ mean kill her. I knew you'd ask." Snape sighed theatrically and made a gesture of futility that would have made Trelawney wet herself in indignation. Albus glared at the professor's lack of seriousness. "If it's a truly _morbid_ reason you want, you could always imagine you were going to die and train her as a replacement."

"Merlin's _balls, _Albus!" Snape exclaimed in disgust, covering his face. "I need to go put out my mind's eye from that visual…"

"What, yourself dead?"

"No, that's the happy bit. Hermione Granger trying to be sarcastic and wearing nothing but black."

Dumbledore looked considerably cheered by that.

"Really? Did she have the nose?"

"Gods, man!"

*************************************************************** 

"Dearly beloved," Ron Weasley announced in a sephulchral tone, "we are gathered here to bid farewell to one of our closest and dearest friends. As you know, Hermione Granger has elected to take her sixth-year project under Professor Snape." 

The gathering of fifth, sixth, and seventh years in the Gryffindor Common Room let our heavy sighs and a few sniffles were heard. There was also one very offended sigh from the 'deceased,' who thought the funereal proceedings to be in the worst of taste.

"Ron, please!"

"And now, to Say a Few Words, one who knew the departed best. Mr. Harry Potter."

Harry stepped up to the stack of books serving as a pulpit, pretending to compose himself as if this were genuinely a funeral. 

"Thank you, Ron. Friends, we all knew Hermione Granger. She's the bushy-haired one who seemed to live in the library."

A few fairly astonished comments were heard, mostly to the effect of 'so _that's_ who died!' Hermione was trying either not to laugh or storm out, noone could tell for sure. She actually looked measurably more like Professor McGonagall as the 'services' went on.

"She was remarkably smart, as nobody really needs to say, and always ready and willing to help out with a good bit of rule-breaking, provided she was in charge and it was really a worthwhile cause. She also holds the Gryffindor record for making professors weep in ecstasy, second in the school's history only to that slut in Hufflepuff."

"Merlin's arse!" Hermione protested, trying to leave. Parvati and Lavender blocked her way, having far too much fun to let the subject go.

"Her contributions to the field of homework are too many to list, especially to those of us who found ourselves with a ten-inch essay due the day after a Quidditch game. Her one flaw, at least since she got her teeth fixed, was her insatiable thirst for- ahem!" Harry had to stop and give some Gryffindor boys a look. "Knowledge. It was this _burning_ desire, this unquenchable _lust_-"

A stream of truly awful curse words were heard from the student in question.

"Do you _mind?_" Ginny Weasley inquired on her friend's behalf. Harry swallowed, not wanting to offend his new secret girlfriend.

"Sorry, Gin. What I mean to say is that in her great fix to do the hardest project in history, she surrendered herself into the hands of Professor Snape. And now, as she goes off to certain death by overdose of sarcasm and greasy hair, let us bow our heads and remember her memory."

Hermione was rather disgusted by this parody, not that it wasn't sort of funny, and as she was leaving with enough Potions textbooks to wallpaper the Vatican, she did give Ron and Harry an amused smile. When Neville, who had yet to understand they weren't serious, began shrilly singing 'Nearer, My God To Thee,' however, it was too much. She made her way to the dungeons still shaking with laughter at everything.

************************************************************* 


	2. Odd Things Happen

Chapter Two: Odd Stuff Happens

"Dare I even inquire what is so funny, Miss Granger?" Snape asked coldly, opening the door of his classroom for her. Poor Hermione was still stifling giggles as she entered.

"I- I'm sorry, Professor."

"As disruptive and annoying as laughter is, I believe my question warrented an answer and not an apology."

"I- well, you see, -er,"

"Now, Miss Granger." Snape moved swiftly, batlike, to behind his desk, leaving her near the door. She answered.

"The Gryffindors sort of played a joke on me."

"Oh, _really?"_ Snape inquired sarcastically. "Just _astonishing_ to see a know-it-all like you laughing at that kind of-"

"What sort of potion did you have in mind to start, Professor?" Hermione interrupted crisply. Severus snarled.

"Two points from Gryffindor for interrupting. I believe you were _expected_ to have prepared an interest list outline before arriving. If you have not come prepared, I can only-"

"Done it." 

Hermione honestly didn't mean to come off as bitchily as she was. Going from enjoyable laughter to her professor's accursed snarkiness was having a nasty effect on her, and she tossed the thick, tightly wound roll of parchment at him, just a little harder than Fred and George usually sent Bludgers. It hit him in the chest with the kind of satisfying thump made by a rolled-up newspaper striking a front door. Over the holiday, Hermione had paid for a few Muggle summer classes by taking a paper route, and in addition to the added muscle from bicycling contouring her legs nicely, the throwing had given her a fairly good arm. 

She had no idea Severus noticed _both_ side effects when he staggered to catch the roll. He made a mental note to ask Albus if those little pleated skirts couldn't be made mandatorily ankle-length. He gave her a withering glare and wordlessly undid the seal holding the roll closed. Like a freed watchspring, it spindled free, and with some pleasant surprise Severus realized that it was at least fifteen feet of her compulsively neat and rather tiny script. He read the first three or so and looked up at the nervous sixth-year.

She returned his calculating look with an apologetic one for throwing the roll so hard, and he decided not to take points off.

"Miss Granger, as much as I would like to provide you with instruction in what resembles an entire potions curriculum, I do fear this _–epic_ is unsatisfactory."

"Oh, I've already done a pretty good amount of it, sir," Hermione clarified, stepping over to his desk and standing a little to his left to indicate the outline she had prepared. She tapped it with her wand and suddenly it became as intensely colorful as if a kindergartner had attacked it with highlighters.  "See, everything marked in red I completed over the holidays between first and second year, orange between second and third, and so on through the visible spectrum to blue. Anything in violet I only had time to research sparingly, and unmarked entries I only have definitions of."

Severus felt the corners of his mouth go into a bizarre spasm, but he repressed the uncharacteristic reaction and glanced over the long outline to find errors.

"There seems to be a disproportionate amount less orange."

"Yes, that's true." Hermione bit her lip as if this disappointed her as well. "I spent the summer holidays in France that year and didn't have as much time as I wanted to work."

"You seem to show an uncharacteristic interest in potions...so _suddenly_." Snape gave her what he hoped was an intimidating leer.

She had the nerve to smile –and oh, _Merlin_, her teeth were normal! He again had to repress a smile by biting down on the very tip of his tongue.

"Professor, if you think this is interest, I suggest you ask Professor McGonagall to see the outline I turned in to her yesterday. I chose Potions because it presents a challenge."

"So I was told." Snape had no choice but to relax a little. "That seems to me just a little bit less than a good reason."

"Well, sir," Hermione stammered, anxious he would refuse to supervise her project. "Actually, I always have been interested in the subject of potions, more so than several others." He looked stern. "Divination comes to mind," she added hopefully, knowing his apparent shared dislike of Sybil Trelawney.

Merlin's _ears_, did he actually...yes, he'd smiled. Hermione thought her first school play audition in third grade had made her heart pound. She was certain half of Slytherin dormitory wondered what the banging was.

"And what do you presume to like about it?" Severus asked more gently than he usually asked favorite Slytherin students. Hermione blushed slightly.

"It's the exactness, and the anticipation of knowing how it turned out." He seemed to nod, and she went on. "I mean, with transfiguration the effects are instantaneous. There's no suspense. And so much of magic lacks subtlety...like feeding a hippogriff or watering mandrake plants. Arithmancy has some of the exactitude, but none of the introspect. You either have the answer or you don't with that, none of the theories about adding such-and-such ingredient having a desired effect. It's just...I like it."

_'Could I have sounded more like a second-year?'_ she speculated in disgust.

_'Could she have sounded more like a tenured Potions mistress?'_ Severus wondered.

*********************************************************************** 

"Cassandra Alcott and John Tyler," Alastor Moody greeted. They were grinning, friendly-looking Americans, and even the normally suspicious Moody couldn't resist returning the smile. 

"Mr and Mrs. John Tyler, actually," the female pointed out, kissing her new husband on the cheek. "You must be Mr. Moody."

"Call me Mad-Eye," the grizzled old Auror laughed.

Cassandra was only about five and a half feet tall, with long, wild hair and flashing blue-gray eyes. She had the sort of abnormally pale skin caused by consumption in earlier centuries, and her nose might have at one point been grievously broken. Her infectious smile and air of absolute capability belied the faint dark circles under her eyes and red inner lip as if she had trouble breathing. 

John, by contrast, was healthy and a little past six feet tall, with lustrous gunmetal colored eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was reddish-brown and only seven inches or so shorter than his wife's, covering the back of his collar and long sideburns. When he showed his teeth, which was rarely, there was the faint sense that they somehow weren't right; since the incisors were so straight and the canines so pointed by comparison. 

There was a strangeness in both of the newlyweds' gestures that Mad-Eye took note of quite hurriedly, like the way Cassandra scratched rapidly at an itch with a stiff hand or the way John's tongue went over his frontmost teeth when he yawned. In the three hours it took for him to give the newcomers the tour of the Auror Office and brief them on the strategy of their first assignment, Moody had pretty much written off Americans in general as a quirky lot.

"So we search the Macnair residence...that's not hard." Cass did most of the talking for the pair. John took her coat and hung it on the rack in the office they shared. He then removed his own and rolled up his sleeves. Moody blinked in surprise at the small, barely noticeable star on the American's arm.

"But you –you're a-?"

"A werewolf? Of course. I was born that way."

"I was bitten almost eleven months ago," Cass explained. 

"I would never have known...you're search and forensics specialists."

"Ever heard of bloodhounds?" John inquired with a mischievous smile. "Cass, dear?"

The young woman walked over to the dignified Auror who could easily have been her grandfather and cheerfully sniffed his lapel.

"Fried eggs and oatmeal, toast with strawberry jam, Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, roast beef sandwich with brown mustard on a (sniff,) kaiser bun, more Firewhisky, two cognacs for tea, and for supper...you haven't eaten yet."

"That's incredible."

Looking charming as ever and pleased with herself, Cass went over and put an arm around her husband.

"You should see what John can do. He'd know the vintages of the liquor and whether or not the eggs were over-easy or sunny side-up."

Moody let out a resounding, raspy laugh.

"Shall we adjourn to the Leaky Cauldron then for dinner? My treat."

"Alright...we can go over the portraits then."

"Er...a little too public there, even the private rooms. Constant vigilance." Moody took out a locked album and began to show them pictures of allies and Death Eaters, which the American Aurors duly memorized. "Albus Dumbledore," Moody said, pointing to one picture. "You know who he is. This is Minerva McGonagall." He turned the page to show a dark-eyed, scowling professor in black. "This one's listed under the Hogwarts faculty for confidentiality reasons...not even Crouch knows of this. Severus Snape is undercover in Voldemort's inner circle...you may be doing some search work with him later...he knows how to get into those snakes' mansions."

"He's dishy," Cass pointed out bluntly.

Moody tactfully chose to ignore that remark.

"Here, of course, is Harry Potter," he gestured to the students' section. "His best friends are likely also endangered...This is Ronald Weasley, Arthur and Molly's sixth, and his younger sister Virginia...'Ginny,' I believe they call her, you may need to know that, and Hermione Granger is said to be close to him."

"I like her hair," John observed.

"They seem so young to be snared up in all of this," Cass sighed. Moody chortled dryly:

"You're one to talk. How old are you, twenty-nine?"

"Twenty-two," Cass admitted quietly. John was likely not much older.

"Merlin's arse," Moody whispered, surprised, before returning to his businesslike manner. "Actually, Potter and Weasley are sixteen, Virginia's fifteen, and the odd thing about Hermione Granger, she's..." Moody went and opened a file from a cabinet. "Eighteen in November, she-"

"Used a Time-Turner?" Cass and John asked in unison.

"How did you-?"

"I was born about the same time Voldemort rose, Mad-Eye," Cass announced. "You could say I'm familiar with the practice."

************************************************************************ 

At last Snape agreed to let Hermione focus on the type of potions she was most interested in, namely transfigurative and counter-syndromic elixirs. Included as her ultimate goal in that category was, of course, the Wolfsbane Potion, not to mention a fascinating one that countered seasonal allergies. Her mother was certain to be pleased by that.

For the first frustrating month, however, Snape had her working on such elementary things as the vetrinary tonic Hagrid gave the giant squid for its heart murmur. Several times she arrived at Gryffindor Tower only to go to her dorm and beat pillows for a half hour. Harry and Ron were sympathetically amused and mentioned her problem to Fred and George. The week before Halloween the ever-prankish twins sent her a clever dartboard with a Snape that flew around like in old Muggle duck-shooting arcade games and squealed like a schoolgirl whenever she scored a hit.

"We got the squeals from Percy...turned his Ministry card into a snail while he was holding it."

For awhile her dreams were haunted by the image of Snape in a frilly pink dress, being shot at by Elmer Fudd. Hermione was at the point of swearing off Bugs Bunny forever when a chance occurence in class changed her dreams a bit.

She was stirring the first interesting potion so far in the project, a moderately complicated remedy for dandruff, when suddenly Snape swept up behind her like the overgrown bat he seemed. Hermione felt his long fingers close over hers to stir in the opposite direction.

"Slower, more even strokes," the velvet voice informed her. She could smell sandalwood and asphodel on his robes, feel his warm breath at her neck, and the touch of his hand on hers made her feel dizzy. "Excellent, Miss Granger."

The dreams from then on were much different.

*****************************************************************


	3. An Unusual Evening

Chapter Three: An Unusual Evening

_"Gaaah!"_

"Hermione, what is it?" Ginny asked, sitting straight up in bed. They were having a sleepover in the sixth-years' dormitory. Lavender was out at the Astronomy Tower with Seamus Finnegan, and Parvati was sleeping over at her twin sister Padma's dorm, so it was just them. 

"A nightmare...a really bad nightmare."

"You're shaking –what could possibly be that bad? Was it You-Know-Who?"

"Ginny," Hermione sighed, her flaming cheeks invisible in the dark, "do you ever have those weird dreams with -guys and –_stuff?"_

"Kinky sex dreams?" Ginny inquired cheerfully. "Who doesn't? I had a really neat one a week ago about Harry in the locker room after they beat Slytherin-"

_"GINNY!"_ Hermione had covered her ears, appalled. 

"What?"

"Never, _ever_ tell me about dreams like that again."

"Oh, okay...you've smelled the locker room, haven't you?"

"No, it's just..._Harry-"_

"Oh, I see. It's too squicky."

"Yeah." Hermione lit up the end of her wand and took a sip from the glass of water on her nightstand. "Anyway, I've been having those kind of sick dreams as well."

"I don't think it's sick. It's just our hormones and imaginations running wild." Ginny was definitely the old adage 'it's always the quiet ones' personified. "So, where was yours?"

"In the Potions room."

"Ooh, kinky! Did you break vials and knock cauldrons on the floor?"

"God, Ginny! It wasn't the furious wild-hippogriff sort of dream, it was the –other kind."

_"Oh,_ slow and sensual. Love that kind."

"What do you _read_ in the library?"

"Lots of stuff. More details."

"Well, it wasn't really _what_ I was doing that freaked me out."

"It was _who_ you were doing, wasn't it?"

"Can we tone down the language a little bit, Ginny?"

"Hey, I have brothers. You learn all the terms with them." Hermione cringed and Ginny continued to smile. "So who was it?"

"You really don't want to know."

"Do you want me to guess?"

"Ginny!"

"Harry, right? I don't mind as long as it stays in yours."

"Ew!"

"Ron, then?"

"Disgusting. No way, Ginny."

_"Lockhart?" _Ginny asked with a mischievous grin.

"Virginia Weasley!"

"Me? Really? I'm flattered."

"Merlin's balls!"

"Seriously, Hermione, you can tell me."

"Secret?" They solemnly shook on it. "Professor Snape."

Hermione was prepared for disgust. She was ready for a threat to have her committed to St. Mungo's. What she was not ready for, however, was Ginny's reaction.

"He's really not so bad."

"What do you mean, he's not so bad? He's Professor Snape!"

"You didn't call him that in the dream, did you?"

"No, but- Ginny, that's beside the point!"

"So you dreamed about boinking a teacher. That's usual!"

"Usual! Have _you_ ever dreamed about Severus?"

"No, but that doesn't mean _–Severus?"_ Hermione went absolutely crimson. Ginny grinned. "Severus? You fancy our professor?"

"I do not!"

"It's probably just fantasies. I mean, the greasy hair, the hooky nose-"

"It's not hooky! It's just –Merlin's arse, Ginny!" Hermione got up and went to the door, pulling on her robe.

"Where are you going?"

"Madam Pomfrey's! I must be losing my mind!"

Hermione left Gryffindor Tower in quite a fright, wondering what mix of ingredient fumes could possibly have done this. Ginny stayed behind, giggling and committing this anecdote to her diary. 

As Hermione raced through the darkened halls, her bunny slippers smacking the castle floors, thoughts of insanity and white-robed psychiatrists danced around in her head like drunken house-elves. Wondering whether or not house-elves even _did_ get drunk, she forgot to look where she was going and ran into someone with a satisfying 'thump.'

"Miss Granger?" a familiar voice inquired.

It was as if her dream was happening before her eyes. She was lying on top of Professor Snape.

********************************************************************** 

A/N: Short chapter and cliffie! I'm sorry, guys. Reviews? Was I bad? Is this going well?  
-J. McN.


	4. Awkwardness

Chapter Four: Awkwardness   
                        _or_  
                        'Enter the Yenta'

"Miss Granger?" Severus asked in surprise. Her lithe body had collided with and was now lying on top of his, not an unpleasant feeling in the slightest, except where their foreheads had bonked together. Quickly he put the growl back in his voice. "What are you doing out of your dormitory?" She leapt off of him as if electrocuted.

"Professor! I'm sorry, I didn't see-"

"Where you were going? That much is perfectly obvious. Why are you here?"

"I- I wasn't feeling well and I was going to-"

"Madam Pomfrey's?"

_'Damn him anyway,'_ Hermione thought. The way he finished her sentences irritated her more than anything she could imagine. "Actually, she is away for the evening. Is the matter one you could describe to me? I take responsibility in her absence for the ailments of the students."

_'I'm being nice?' _Severus wondered at himself.

"No, sir, that's alright. I'll just go back to Gryffindor Tower if that's okay." A stray beam of light illuminated Hermione's small figure and Snape noticed she had sustained a few scratches in the fall when she crashed into him.

"Absolutely not, Miss Granger. I suggest you examine your left elbow and come with me."

"Oh. It's only a scratch, sir. I'll be okay."

"Not unless you permit me to clean it out. Are you aware of what sorts of bacteria dwell on a stone floor?" Nervously she seemed to tremble as she shook her head. Snape relished the growing horror in her face as he detailed the gruesome possibilities: "Considering that Hagrid takes the sick animals through this corridor to my office, I expect there's probably a few different strains of anichritis germs frisking about down there. You don't want your arm to turn into a paw, do you? Or perhaps chronic incandescence virus, _that_ would be interesting, if moderately incurable, and of course there's always that mutated chancre carried on the paws of abridons-"

"Alright, sir!" The poor girl looked absolutely ashen.

"It would be more proper to _thank_ me, Miss Granger. I _could_ just let your hand rot off."

That was definitely a mistake. The poor sixth-year burst into frightened tears, probably caused just as much by exhaustion as by his provocation, judging by the circles under her eyes, but Severus still felt like he'd kicked a baby rabbit. Sighing deeply, he atempted to seem at least moderately humanable: "Come along. We'll get that patched in no time."

"Leave me alone!"  she cried, running off down the hallway in the direction she had come. Severus, being rather taller, easily caught up just as she crashed into a suit of armor and began to cry again. "Go away!" she pleaded in a scared, wounded fury, brandishing the knight's heavy battle-axe.

_"Neptunus!"_ Snape whispered under his breath. "Or what? You'll hit me with that _fish?"_

Hermione looked down at the weapon she held, only to discover it had transformed into the oiliest, thickest, most disgusting dead haddock she'd ever seen. 

Whether from the shock of seeing the fish or from the smell, Snape would never know, because she merely fainted dead away. A rather remarkable curseword escaped his lips and he bent to pick up the unfortunate girl.

She was surprisingly light and her arm easily fell over his shoulder. Severus remembered to turn the haddock back into a battle-axe before he left, lest Mrs. Norris unwittingly feast on a Gothic weapon of the fourteenth century. 

As hard as he tried to reflect on how unbearably Gryffindor it was of his pupil to go running around in the dark like that, Severus kept finding unwelcome thoughts creeping between his ears. Thoughts like _'her hair smells of strawberries'_ and _'I wonder how she lifted that battle-axe,'_ frolicked about like mice. She let out a tiny sigh as he adjusted his grip on her, and the soft little sound seemed uncomfortably close to his ear. He wouldn't have encountered another being in the halls for all the gold in Gringotts at that moment.

At last they reached his classroom, and from there his Spartan office. A second's glance proved there was noplace short of the desk where he could lay her down, and a table in the classroom would likely seem just a little bit on the arcane side if she woke up. Reluctantly Severus mumbled the password and stepped through the secret door in the back of the office that led to his private chambers. At last he could divest his shoulders of this know-it-all burden, though she really wasn't all that bad to carry, nice and warm against him and very soft-

He shook his head violently as if to send _that_ unholy thought flying to the winds. Carefully, so as not to wake her and shock a year off her life, Severus laid Hermione gently down on the fat couch in front of his fireplace. It was then that he experienced one of the more horrific moments of his life.

She was _hanging on_ to him.

Severus tried to disentangle the unconscious girl, but she whimpered in her sleep and actually clung tighter. Finally he gave up, relented, and sat down on the couch with her head leaning on his shoulder like a tiny child. Actually, it wasn't that bad with her asleep that way. Her notorious bushy hair was back in a ponytail for sleeping, her winter nightclothes more than satisfied the demands of modesty, and the confiding way she actually seemed to cuddle closer to him was strangely pleasurable. At that moment she wasn't thinking about how offensive he was in class, or about his past or appearance or anything else. Hermione was just obliviously comforted by his presence. After a few minutes he put aside the feelings about her behavior in class, her detestable pair of friends, and even the endearing way she bristled when he picked on Longbottom. As much as he was holding and comforting her, he was comforted by her unconscious trust. And she really did smell nice. Being a Potions master, Severus had a very fine-tuned sense of smell. Strawberries were also his favorite fruit. 

A bit of her wild hair, having gone AWOL from her ponytail, brushed his face. Snape blew it away and immediately remembered who this girl in his arms was. Carefully he untangled her arms from his shoulders and put her gently down on the couch. Going to the cabinet by the bookshelf, he took out a few vials and one medium bottle of various potions. With the sort of detached, exact gentleness he used for helping Hagrid mend hurt or sick animals, Snape used a clean washcloth to apply the healing solution from the bottle to Hermione's arms where the scratches were.

It stung. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten that.

With a little cry like that of a surprised kitten, Hermione woke and looked up at him in shock. Just before she could make another sound, Severus pressed a finger lightly on her lips.

"Shh," he cautioned. "This particular solution is highly volatile. A loud  enough noise could blow your arms off."

That was bullshit, of course, and she would probably realize that as soon as the shock wore off, but Snape really didn't want her to talk to him yet. He at least wanted to give the bushy-haired, statlingly leggy creature on his couch a moment to at least moderately compose herself. This was not so much out of kindness to girlish –no, womanly- dignity as it was to his own shredded nerves. All it would take was one terrified shriek from the Granger girl and Snape knew his already short temper would cause him to verbally wound his student beyond repair.

The mere fact that he was being _this_ considerate, to use a Muggle phrase, scared the crap out of him.

Hermione's arm trembled. Severus remembered just how much that stuff stung, leaned over, and gently blew on it. 

She looked him directly in the eyes then, and his heart easily changed rhythms. She wasn't afraid, just very surprised and –dare he imagine, a little pleased?

"Thank you, Professor Snape," she said quietly.

"'Allo, Sevvy!" a stridently cheerful voice called, just as the door was unceremoniously thrown open by Albus Dumbledore. "Dear me, Miss Granger! What's happened to your arm?"

"I fell in the dark and Professor Snape was helping me," Hermione glibly covered up the incriminating details. Severus was amazed at how quickly she was able to be calm again. 

"That was good of you, Severus," Albus remarked, a mischievous grin making his blue eyes sparkle. "I have someone here for you to meet, actually, so why don't I walk Miss Granger up to Gryffindor Tower? Would that be alright with you, Hermione?"

"Of course, Professor Dumbledore."

"Severus, these are John and Cassandra Tyler, the dispatch from America."

"Of course," Snape replied, standing up and shaking hands with the red-haired man and his wife. It was actually fairly imperative that Hermione not realize these were two Aurors here, just as imperative that she not find out he was spying against Voldemort.

"You must be Professor Snape," Cass greeted amiably. "I've just finished your monograph on lacewing extract from 1993, found it most informative."

How was it that women accomplished that? In the space of a minute, both Hermione Granger and Cassandra Tyler had just been able to deceive _without_ technically lying, expertly. Severus wondered how it was that females were so effortly deceptive. Spying was almost the hardest thing he'd ever done.

"And you'll be Hermione Granger, from the sixth-year class?" Cass inquired, shaking the student's hand. "Your paper on Animagi throughout the history of magic was one of the best dual-subject term theses I've seen since I got ahold of Minerva McGonagall's essay from the Daily Prophet essay contest in 1964."

"Thank you," Hermione gasped, surprised. Severus knew that student papers for the fifth year and above were archived, and it was common knowledge that they were only read by what students termed 'academic sticks-up-the-arse'. It was actually something of a humorous stereotype. In mentioning it, not only had the American insured that Hermione would not mention it to any other student for fear of being thought a braggart, but she had likely also convinced her she was merely an academic working with him on some potion or other. "Are you from the Col- I mean America?"

"Yep. Pittsburgh. John an' me are sort of adding this trip onto our honeymoon."

"How long have you been married?" Snape inquired.

"Almost nine months," John announced proudly, slipping his arm around his wife. 

"Well, I'd better be getting back to my room. It was nice meeting the two of you." 

"And lovely to meet you, too!" Cass replied just before kissing John again. Albus offered the Gryffindor girl his arm. 

Just after Albus and Hermione left, Severus heard whispers and giggles out of the American newlyweds. He had turned away in mild disgust from their enthusiastic snogging, and now he was faced with mischievous grins.

"I understand you're from the American Aurory?"

"Yes, we're both forensic operatives. Now, the organization of the Death Eaters..."

After that, the Tylers were all business. Severus found them both to be incredibly intelligent, with Cass doing more of the talking and John devising more of the strategies. It seemed that Cass had actually studied more forensics and more formally, and John had more on-the-job experience, in addition to the fact that he had been born a werewolf and she had only been bitten about a year or so ago. It was the contrast of an Academy-educated operative and a tracker with years of teaching handed down from his family.

The fact that the Tylers were so obviously in love with each other it practically dripped off them wasn't nearly as nauseating as Severus usually found such things. It added an edge to their work, as they finished sentences for each other, working out problems with two minds instead of one. In three weeks he found out more of their history, how they had met at a rock concert, of all places, how John had saved Cassandra's life from the werewolf who had bitten her, and how they depended on each other for different things. Cass was Muggle-born, the daughter of a college professor, and the easy way she tolerated and even responded to Severus' sarcasm was infuriatingly refreshing after his students' cowering. John's family was almost nothing but werewolves, and he had grown up the second of four brothers, sons of a widower. Cass had to help him not only with details about the life habits of Muggles, but of females as well. They often leaned on each other when working, Cass reading softly aloud to John and he illustrating diagrams of ideas and maps from her words.

It was a little like watching his parents work had been.

************************************************************** 

"She has a crush on him, maybe more."

"How d'you tell?"

"I just do."

"I think he fancies her as well."

"Fancies, m'love? Already you're talkin' like a Brit."

"So're you," John protested, kissing Cassandra. "Albus invited us to the Hogwarts Yule Ball next week."

"Shall we go?"

"Wasn't that what I was asking you?"

"Oh, of course. Do you want to?"

"You like to dance."

"That's right." Cass finished tying John's tie for him. "I guess we shall."

"You know what? I love you."

"I love you, too."

Five minutes later they turned into a pair of wolves.


	5. With a Little Help From My Friends

Chapter Five: With A Little Help From My Friends

Snape detested going to the annual Yule Ball. He hated the politeness, the dancing, usually the music, the punch, which always seemed far too sweet for human consumption, and the complete and total lack of good company. He finished buttoning his dress robes, which were, of course, black, and looked disdainfully at the tiny gray owl that was perching on his elbow.

"Hoot," it announced, looking rather proud of itself. "Hoot."

Severus recognized the owl well enough. It was called Lodgy and it belonged to Albus Dumbledore, being the Tylers' idea of a good present that wasn't socks. That morning it had been asleep in the Christmas tree. Privately, Snape thought that putting the little owl there was a stroke of presentative genius. With uncharacteristic kindness, he picked a bit of roast beef out of the sandwich Winky had brought him and fed it to the little bird. 

Lodgy hooted happily and held out his leg for Severus to take the note. He then proceeded to rub his feathery, downy-soft head against the professor's cheek a few times before flying off. Snape frowned only slightly at the bird's endearment, than actually smiled after reading the note. It read simply:

_'Severus,  
            John and Cass will be at the Ball tonight. Hope the idea of actual conversation there cheers you up. Happy Christmas,  
                        -Albus'_

Considering the indignity he had subjected himself to in obtaining their Christmas gift, Severus was actively looking forward to seeing the Tylers again. In accordance with Albus' command to make a friend, he was making the effort not to alienate the Americans, for indeed; they seemed the most likely people to be friends with, considering they were the least annoying ones. 

One of Cassandra Tyler's more endearing characteristics was her tendency to display her affections openly, kissing her husband in the middle of a tactical discussion of the Riddle house, grinning broadly and chirping with joy when Severus showed her his signed copy of Oscar Wilde's plays, and sighing ecstatically when John retired to the piano in the study and played favorite songs as she and Snape wrote the plans out. It seemed odd that John Tyler could draw almost photographically, in that he never seemed to write anything. Severus had questioned both of them separately about their backgrounds, and it seemed that the American werewolves shared similar tastes in and genuinely adored music. John played the piano and several other instruments, while Cass owned a beat-up guitar covered in autographs. His idea had been to obtain a good recording of one of their favorites, which necessitated the aid of one with an actual grasp of Muggle music to find such a thing.

And naturally, the Muggle Studies teacher had promptly left to have a baby. How inconsiderate. Snape considered asking one of the Slytherins, but the threat of a Death Eater relative finding out that 'Professor Snape's started collecting Muggle things' was far too great. That left him with one person, whom he'd rather have died than ask –Minerva McGonagall. 

"I'm sorry, Severus," she had told him, sounding genuinely sorry. "I promised Sprout I would help her find a present for Flitwick. We're going to be in Diagon Alley for God knows how long –you know how Rosie is with shopping."

"I understand."

"I do know someone who could help you, though, -and you can take the train into London with us! Shall I ask her?"

"Yes, thank you," Severus had sighed, relieved. Minerva had stepped to the fireplace and thrown a bit of Floo powder in.

"Hermione?" she called. Severus had restrained a cringe. 

And so it was that Severus Snape and Hermione Granger had been forced by fate and the custom of Christmas gifts to spend two hours in the London Virgin Megastore. The name of the establishment has given poor Snape a momentary start, and fortunately Miss Granger had had the grace not to laugh at him. Actually, she had proved as enchanting in the Muggle world as she was intelligent in the Potions lab. 

"Does Mrs. Tyler like the Beatles? This one would do well," she suggested, holding up a brightly colored CD.

"I don't know...she seemed to like a particular song John played the best..."

"Which?"

"That would be the problem, Miss Granger, I don't know the name of it."

"Oh," Hermione seemed a bit startled by this. "Well, do you remember how it went at all, or a few lyrics?"

For a moment Snape stood, thinking of how the particular melody had gone. Then, with a perfectly straight face, he began to whistle it. Hermione, surprised only for a moment, listened for a few bars and then joined him in whistling, trying to remember the name of the tune. For a few moments, they faced each other with a growing smile on Hermione's face. Suddenly a passing crowd of holiday shoppers jostled them together, chests meeting and lips barely an inch apart as the startled girl looked up. Reflexively Severus closed his arms around her to keep her from falling, and as the crowd passed they looked into each other's eyes.

Hers were a soft cinnamon brown, and as shocked as she seemed –as she had to be, Severus was surprised to see a mischievous sparkle. She didn't mind this and was enjoying his company!

His eyes were black, like obsidian, and where Hermione had always assumed they would be icy cold, his were full of innocent surprise. She smiled, and he half-smiled almost shyly, before she whispered,

"The look of love."

"What?" Snape asked, having nearly had his black hair shocked white.

"The song, it's _'The Look of Love'_ -by Dusty Springfield, I believe."

"Oh!"

In the end they wound up buying Harry Nilsson's Greatest Hits. It seemed safer.

What had taken the lesser part of the two hours was Hermione's present to Ron Weasley. She chose what would was for her a perfectly ordinary Muggle headphones and transistor wireless, which to a wizard would be downright fascinating. She then proceeded to explain how Muggle broadcast waves worked in lavish detail after Severus inquired why the antenna wasn't wood. 

"Wizarding wireless works with an antenna similar to a wand, correct? Muggles' is based on waves of energy moving at a different frequency, which requires a metal antenna to pick them up."

"You mean they're shooting electricity through the air?" Severus asked in shock. Maybe _that_ explained her bushy hair.

"Er, not quite, they just- radio waves are just in the air, they aren't strong enough to hurt us or even be felt. But look over here," Hermione pulled him over to a wall of televisions. There was a weird feeling they seemed almost to give off. "Tellys you can sort of feel, that's from the ion cathode vacuum tubes."

"The what?"

"Professor, did you even _take_ Muggle Studies class?"

"No. Merlin's balls!" There was a huge explosion what seemed like inches from his face. Hermione managed to stop him from dragging her to the ground.

"That's just the new large-screen HD-TV, Professor." She was biting her lip trying not to laugh. Rather than act as offended as he felt, Severus took the diplomatic route and reached over to touch the shiny glass screen. 

It prickled and felt on the whole rather nice. Snape began feeling the other screens, fascinated. 

Unable to restrain her sense of mischief any longer, Hermione reached over and brushed her hand across four smaller-screen TVs. She then touched her Professor on the ear.

"Ow!" Snape nearly jumped out of the black Muggle clothes he had Transfigered his robes into. "Circe's garters, what _was_ that, Hermione?"

"Static electricity," she giggled. "I'm sorry to shock you that way-"

And she was gone. The speech about shocking had been unintentional and most unfortunate. Snape actually managed to blush and smile a little bit, mostly because with her hair awry Hermione looked so funny. 

When had he started thinking of her as Hermione?

Just then, they were cheerfully interrupted by the perkiest, blondest, most peppy salesgirl since the movie _'Bring It On'_ came out in England.

"Can I help you and your wife find anything?"

Strangled sounds began to escape from Snape's throat:

"Guh, I –we, uh, she's-"

"JUST LOOKING!" Hermione announced. With a perky and faintly manic little smile, the salesgirl disappeared. The student turned on her professor as if he was hurt. "You alright?"

"What _was_ that creature?" he inquired, still horrified that any human could have a smile that wide. Honestly, it had looked as if her head was about to split. Hermione shook her head sadly.

"That creature would be a salesgirl, Professor. Ravenous things, they delight in accosting unsuspecting customers, mostly to actually _be_ helpful, but also to keep people from nicking things. You have to know the magic words to neutralize the hunting instinct, then they go on their way."

"That's why the 'just looking'?" he asked. She nodded seriously. "So that's what the love child of a house-elf and Lockhart would be like."

Hermione really enjoyed that joke, and they both were laughing when she suddenly went white as a ghost. "What is it?" Snape asked, startled by the change.

"Oh, my sainted aunt!" Hermione cried. "Professor, you realize you just made a joke?"

"I hardly think that is-" he began snarkily.

"Really, are you alright? Do you need to lie down?"

Snape glared at her until he realized she was still smiling. With a heavy sigh it had taken years of teaching to perfect, bent so that he and his student were eye-to-eye.

"Tell Potter and Weasley about this and you'll be making willow bark tea for the rest of term."

Hermione, still smiling, agreed to that.

"Ron wouldn't understand salesgirls anyway."

Three racks over, in the childrens' films section, Cass gave the perky salesgirl a ten-pound note.

****************************************************************** 

As unobtrusively as he could, Snape entered the Great Hall, only to be greeted by a severely happy house-elf and escorted to his place at one of the multitude of round tables set up especially for the ball. He read his own name on his placecard and noticed that the Tylers were to be seated at his right. Perfect. The centerpieces on the tables were miniature living Christmas trees with presents underneath, so he simply added the carefully wrapped gift to the heap already there. The pocket guide to common potions ingredients in unrefined form he had gotten as an afterthought, sort of to thank Miss Granger for her help, he also placed under the tree. The house-elves would sort it out. He noticed a squarish present wrapped in paper resembling shiny hematite and tied with a black velvet ribbon. It was so out-of-place among all the brightly-colored or more conventionally sparkly ones that he checked the tag.

It was for him. He placed it back under the little tree with curiosity starting to perk up for the first Christmas since he was ten or so. Who had sent it and what could it possibly be?

As soon as the feeling had risen it fell again. It was either from Albus, Lucius Malfoy, or the other faculty as a collective. He had no real friends. Who was he kidding?

Just then John Tyler arrived and took his place next to Severus. He was dressed in mostly black also, but with a white, yellow, green and blue tartan sash.

"Your students have abducted my wife, Severus," he announced quietly.

"What?"

"The red and yellow ones, the girl ones."

"The Gryffindors."

"Yep. Well, your deputy headmistress assigned all of the guests to dormitories to get changed for the ball in, and Cass got assigned to the Gryffindors."

"Merlin help her. How is she liking the dunderheads?"

"She likes 'em. Female bonding and all of that."

This was a very long speech for John. He was normally so close-mouthed people wondered if he _could_ talk. Severus was stricken by a momentary mental picture of Cass being crowned Queen of the Gryffindors and borne into the Hall in a red and gold chariot. The only part of it that kept him from being stricken also by projectile vomiting was the image of Potter and Weasley pulling it like horses. "She's here," John observed in an almost reverent tone, rising from his seat to greet his wife and the two females who accompanied her. 

Severus rose also, as was proper when ladies came to the table, and to his horror and surprise –mostly surprise, though- recognized Virginia Weasley as one of the two students. In the flowing, antique-cut dress robes she had chosen, Ginny looked like a Greek goddess, aphrodite as viewed by Titian, perhaps. The youngest Weasley being so far the only one Severus liked, he was moderately less than furious to see her. Then his eyes fell on the other female.

If Ginny was Aphrodite tonight, then the creature standing next to her was Athena. It was she, his know-it-all student who alone in the school shared his love of Potions and a good library! The fact that Lodgy's brother Hayward was trying to bite her earring off only added to her image as the wisest of goddesses. Hermione gently plucked the little owl from her shoulder and petted his head as he perched on her two fingers, which, Severus noticed, still had inkblots on them from the amount of writing she did. He couldn't for the life of him remember why he wasn't supposed to fancy her.

"Professor?" Ginny inquired suddenly. That was why! She was his student, damn it all, how had he forgotten? Gods, what was Albus _putting_ in that eggnog?

"Yes, Miss Weasley?"

"Oh, call me Ginny. I was just wondering if you agreed with Mrs. Tyler's-"

"Cass!" the Auror reminded gently. 

"Cass' suggestion about the seating," Ginny finished.

"Seating?"

"Yes, Severus, I thought John and I would switch and Ginny could be next to Hermione. That way everybody can pass the vegetables they don't like to the left."

Severus was startled by this peculiar logic, especially when he realized that that arrangement put Hermione at his side. 

"Well, I suppose-"

"Okay," Cass switched with John, stealing a kiss along the way. 

"This isn't-" Severus started to protest, meaning to ask what students were doing at their table.

"No, this isn't the arrangement according to the place cards, but I don't think the elfies will mind a little breaking of social custom." Snape tried again:

"I must point out to you that-"

"I must point out to you that _foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds!"_

"Emerson!" Hermione cried ecstatically.

"Pardon?" John asked, having just looked up from peeking under the tiny tree.

"Ralph Waldo Emerson, born 1803, died 1882," Snape explained absently.

"You've read Emerson, Professor?" Hermione inquired, surprised.

"Yes, actually. He had some very interesting essays published about the time of the American Transcendentalists."

"Personally, I thought the Transcendentalist ideals were better reflected in the Bohemian revolution of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in Europe," Cass remarked with a wink to Ginny, noting that everyone was seated as she had planned.

"Leave it to the American to be a Europhile," Snape remarked just a bit acidly. "Name me one Bohemian who lived to be older than fifty."

"Oscar Wilde," Hermione offered. Severus looked at her in amazement; she had just shot down one of his favorite historical arguments. "Well, technically he was more a Bohemian sympathizer than a true –what did they call them then?"

"Children of the Revolution," Cass supplied.

"Yes, I noticed once he was in a painting by Toulouse-Lautrec and after I researched it a bit I found out he visited Montmartre frequently." Hermione seemed to not find this pronouncement very extraordinary, but Severus was amazed.

"That wouldn't be in the Hogwarts library, Hermione."

He had used her name again! He resisted the temptation to smack himself in the forehead.

"I've always been something of a showoff know-it-all," she admitted artlessly. "My father used to take me to the library as a treat."

"My father took me to the Muggle department store as a treat," Ginny remarked wryly.

"My father _lived_ in a library," Cass smiled. "Professors are like that."

"Hermione stayed overnight in the library once," Ginny revealed. "Filch was _furious_."

"The Germans would call her 'Professorin,'" John recalled.

"Where have I heard that term before?" Ginny asked.

"Its presence in literature dates to the time of the American Transcendentalists," Cass remarked, causing Ginny to grin almost secretively. 

"Wasn't Nate Hawthorne a depressing sod?" Albus Dumbledore inquired suddenly, sweeping up behind Severus. "Ah, ladies. How are you this evening?"

"Ginny and Hermione made me very welcome here," Cass smiled quietly. 

Suddenly Severus got the impression that her bold demeanor was as much a charade as Narcissa Malfoy's snobbiness. She had been friendless at some point –he wondered when. It all made sense now why she was drawn to Ginny and Hermione, the latter especially. Both of them were know-it-alls, Muggle-borns and unconventionally pretty, which meant awkwardness before maturity in looks. The fact that Cass and John had to know the character and background of all students at especial risk, Harry Potter's friends especially, did not occur to him until much later.

**************************************************************** 

A/N: Anyone who has read a certain classic book will see a few rather thinly-veiled references. Forty housepoints to anyone who figures out which. Next chapter: they open presents, people burst into song, and Harry shows up in a leather jacket. Reviews for the plot kittens who have just pulled off my sock?  
  



	6. Damn Yankees

A/N: As soon as you're done reviewing this, assuming you have a minute to spare, it might be amusing to go read 'Harry Potter and The Fate of Hogwarts' by WerghofTur, 'Pains' by Mieko Bell, and of course, anything by Her Grace, Strega Brava. I joined WIKTT today on Yahoo.com, by the way. I just hope there are no weird initiation rites.

Chapter Six: Damn Yankees

Dinner was actually the most pleasant Severus had had in quite awhile, even if you did count Dobby the house-elf stopping by to wish the Gryffindor girls Happy Christmas and to thank Hermione for his present –his first toothbrush. Apparently she had found a more suitable soapbox in house-elves' lack of a good dental plan. 

Fleur Delacour was between a slightly nervous John Tyler and Professor McGonagall. She was student-teaching and being tutored in English by Hermione, not a bad choice in Severus' opinion. Dumbledore was to Minerva's left and Ginny Weasley's right.

Their table was not all staff, nor all students, and yet rather cleverly chosen. It had been Ginny Weasley's brilliant idea to put the guest list into the Sorting Hat and pull out names to ensure that each table had people with enough in common for good dinner conversation. This started an improptu game of connections to figure out just how everyone had gotten there.

"Well, Hermione and I are both Gryffindors," Ginny pointed out.

"As am I," Professor McGonagall agreed. "And you and John are both red-headed."

"Yep," John observed.

"Mrs. Ty- -Cass- and I are both Muggle-born," Hermione offered.

"And both of us are annoying female know-it-alls, as is your Professor Snape." Cass happily licked the eggnog off her lip. "Well, minus the female part."

"Both Professor Snape and Mr. Tyler look _magnifique_ in black."

"Amen, sister," Cass high-fived the French student. John went scarlet and suddenly his wife sat up very straight. Very slowly, she turned her head to look at him, before going just as red and kissing him soundly. 

"Both Severus and Hermione are good at potions, and both John and Minerva are Transfiguration experts," Dumbledore pointed out. Severus caught a glance at the girl to his left and noticed her very becoming blush. 

"Are you really, John?" Professor McGonagall asked with a smile.

"Yes."

There was a silence as the whole table waited for him to elaborate on this. Finally, rather than explain it, the American pulled his wand out and transfigured one of the floating candles into an impressive shiny steel industrial flashlight. It fell down, naturally, and Severus caught it just short of knocking out the know-it-all Gryffindor.

"Sorry, I didn't aim that well," John apologized. Snape looked about to hit him with the flashlight and Cass snarled at her husband, baring her teeth. John gave a short, doglike whimper before turning a napkin into a catnip mouse and handing it to Hermione as a peace offering.

"She is not a feline," Severus snarled.

"But her familiar is." Nervously, the American indicated a large orange cat that was just entering the Great Hall. 

"Crookshanks?" Hermione saw her cat. "He's all the way over there, when did you notice him?"

"Minute ago," John answered shortly. 

"And how in Merlin's name did you know he was hers?" Snape inquired, still a little miffed.

John leaned his cheek suddenly against his wife's, then Cass answered:

"Orange cat hairs on the hem of her dress, trace of Muggle toothpaste smell on cat's fur, and territorial marking on her leg."

"What?" Hermione asked.

"Cats rub themselves against people to indicate to other cats that their person is taken," Minerva explained.

"And you can smell all that?"

"Yep." Hermione looked so thoroughly incredulous that John at last elaborated, but again not verbally. He pulled up the sleeve of his left arm and displayed what looked like a small star-shaped tattoo. "I'm a werewolf."

That was a conversational bombshell, to say the least. Werewolves were still considered dangerous and second-class by many, even subhuman by some people. To admit it openly to friends was brave; to a table of acquaintances in a foreign land took more brass balls than Snape figured Voldemort would want to face. 

"I like your tattoo," Hermione complimented politely.

"It's a birthmark. My parents were also werewolves."

"_This_ is a tattoo," Cass showed her own forearm.

"Why would you get zhat?" Fleur inquired, awestruck. "Vherewolves are so hated in America."

"Aw, that's only in the Deep South among redneck assholes," Cass grinned, before her face suddenly softened considerably. "And if John's got a mark for his, so do I."

"You guys are both werewolves?" Ginny asked. The Tylers nodded and seemed to wait for the condemnation or polite change of subject. It did not come. "That's so romantic!"

"Yeah!" Hermione was also smiling. "Do werewolves play the way dogs do?"

"Yep. For a wedding present my brother Paul got us a Muggle machine that shoots tennis balls."

"Cool!" Ginny seemed more fascinated than judgemental, as always. 

"Is being a werewolf anything like being an Animagus is?" Professor McGonagall asked, eying their stars with interest. "I've always sort of wondered."

"It's quite similar," Cass replied. "Werewolves who become Animagi just turn into wolves at will. Dear, would you?"

Suddenly a gray-furred wolf was seated on John's chair. He remained that way for a moment, during which Fleur Delacour scratched him behind the ears affectionately.

"I like wolves."

John shimmered back into himself, blushing again and with the hair by his sideburns slightly ruffled. 

"I like being one." Cass put an arm around him and gave him a radish from her salad.

"Hate those."

The subject then faded into Animagic and from there into what everyone thought was the tastiest Muggle sweet, and then inevitably to Quidditch when the salads were finished. After that came soup and with it the most unfascinating discussion of haircolor charms Severus had ever heard. Against his better judgement, he turned to Hermione and inquired after how her Christmas was passing.

"Very well, so far, sir. And yours?"

"Actually, not too intolerable. Albus found a book I've always rather wanted."

"Ginny's mother sent me a Weasley sweater."

"Well, that'll be warm." It was all Severus could think of to say about the things that wasn't deprecating. "Sybill's been predicting an early thaw, you know."

"Blizzards, then," Hermione smiled. "Sir, have you a pair of snowboots?"

"The Muggle kind? No, I've just taken to putting a Heating Charm on my socks after November. Why do you ask?"

"Well, sir, I've been reading about edelweiss, and I believe that if the weather holds I might be able to get some fresh from the Forbidden Forest."

"That's forbidden to students."

"That's why I asked if you had snowboots," Hermione retorted cleverly.

"You know, I think I will actually go with you. Maybe we can see an Acromantula."

"In the dead of winter?"

"Or perhaps an ettercap, then."

"I've always sort of wanted to see a-"

"Unicorn?"

"Lord, no! A frost dryad."

"Well, should we see one, forgive me if I run away. Dryads would offer me a different kind of trouble than they would you."

"Unless they're bisexual."

Now where did _that_ come from? Hermione wished the floor would swallow her whole. She must seem like a nymphomaniac!

"I don't think I'd mind sticking around to watch," Snape remarked.

Merlin's package! Her Professor had done it, too! He was such a snarky bastard! 

Suddenly Ginny had a positive fit of the giggles. 

"Miss Weasley, about this punch," Snape inquired.

"Yes, sir?" She could barely get the words out for laughing.

"You didn't by any chance slip anything from your brothers' shop into it?"

"Oh, just into in every odd and even glass," Ginny protested before cracking up again. "It's nothing serious."

"Any particular reason to slip your friend and I libido potions?"

Hermione decided to kill Ginny.

"Yours have only got a bit of calming stuff." The slender redhead stirred her soup aristocratically. "I didn't want you jumping down Hermione's throat all night."

"Jeez, Ginny! What kind of a Nerve Potion?" Hermione asked sarcastically.

"The same sort that acts on unusual dreams," she replied without batting an eye. "Sure makes things inter'sting, doesn't it?"

"If I wouldn't lose house points, I think I'd kill you, Gin," Hermione remarked dryly through clenched teeth. Snape calmly passed the cracker basket.

"Please, no catfights. I get enough from the Slytherins."

"Really? Like, Millicent Bulstrode vs. Pansy Parkinson?" 

"That would be more of a sabre-toothed tiger fight, but yes, Miss Weasley, those two get into spats regularly."

"No _wonder_ you're always such a prick in class, if you'll pardon the expression."

"_What_ was that?" Professor McGonagall asked, looking at Ginny in abject surprise.

 "I'm sorry, Professor, allow me to repair that." John pointed his wand at Ginny and muttered "_Exorcius!_"

"Miss Weasley, have you been possessed again?" Dumbledore asked kindly, as if it happened every other week. 

"N-no," Ginny stammered, looking confusedly at John and feeling no different.

"My fault. It was the eggnog we had –sometimes it has goofy side effects."

"_Cass,_" John chastised, poking her in the ribs.

"Alright, so it _always_ has goofy side effects!"

"You made American eggnog for children, Mrs. Tyler?" Professor Snape asked, the way he usually asked Neville what he last put in a melted cauldron.

"We're not children!" Cass, Ginny and Hermione retorted in unison.

"And I didn't make it. He did," Cass indicated John.

"Yep."

"Underage drinking is frowned upon in England."

"Except when the drinkees are dancing nude with lampshades on their heads. Trust me." Professor McGonagall smiled tolerantly. "Why, when I was a girl, we used to get the most lovely champagne from our pen pals at Beauxbatons for after Quidditch games. We'd get looped and go play epic Truth or Dare –once Filius had to serenade the giant squid."

"And pray, _what_ did he sing?" Snape asked sarcastically. Ginny Weasley's remarks about jumping down throats had been giving him strange thoughts.

"I believe it was 'I Feel Pretty'."

"Don't you love Muggle musicals?" Dumbledore remarked. "I've always loved 'My Fair Lady' especially."

"Oh, I love that!" somebody cried.

"I always thought the addition of singing to Shaw's masterpiece was blasphemy," Snape observed.

"So you didn't like 'Moulin Rouge' either?" Cass jested.

"No, Mrs. Tyler, I haven't seen _that_ yet."

"Field trip!" Dumbledore and Cass chorused in unison.

"What I was saying," Snape continued, "is that 'My Fair Lady' was highly implausible."

"I agree," Hermione added. "There's no way Professor Higgins would have such a total turn-around from hating Eliza to loving her."

"Well, it wasn't that he hated her at all, merely that he resented the waste of potential. He knew from the start she was pretty and intelligent, and it annoyed him to hear her ignorant-sounding speech. I meant that it's implausible in that after his poor treatment of Eliza, that she would ever go back to him."

"I'm not so sure on that point, sir. After all, wasn't it his severity that enabled her to learn to speak and eventually pass for a lady?"

"Colonel Pickering was kinder to her."

"Yes, but he was older and it was his kindness that balanced Higgins' –_snarkiness_ while they were teaching her." Hermione had evidently not only read Shaw but devoted a lot of time to studying the work. "Colonel Pickering became her support figure while Higgins became the object of her affections. It's a classic pattern."

"But how does any female develop affection for an overbearing, pompous man who makes education a living hell?"

"Respect for his intelligence, naturally!"

Neither Severus nor Hermione had the faintest inkling of how hard the rest of the table was trying not to laugh.

************************************************************

"Is that_ fruitcake?_" The two Americans were actually salivating, and over fruitcake, no less. Why didn't Britain just _give_ those weirdos their independence in the 1700s? Hermione wondered. 

"Yes, Dobby made it especially. Ron Wheezy told Dobby it was 'Er-my-knee's favorite."

Hermione mumbled a particularly choice Muggle word under her breath.

"Thanks awfully, Dobby."

"_Look_ at that fruitcake! Cop a squat, Dob-man, get a chunk of this!" 

"Yeah!" John accio'd a chair for Dobby and with many nervous thanks, the house-elf sat down. 

Across the Great Hall, directly in the path of John's spell, was a table of Slytherins. When Goyle was ordered by Malfoy to shut up and _drink_ the bleeding Christmas toast already, his rear end and the floor were given a suitable holiday introduction.

"You is liking fruitcake also, ma'am?" Dobby leveled fat slices onto plates, giving Hermione a particularly mountainous portion. Cass grinned and swallowed the pecan she had nibbled off the top.

"I love the stuff! Daddy used to call it doorstop and we would make meals of it."

"You ate fruitcake for _meals_?" Fleur inquired in surprise.

"When you spend lots of time in a library, it's easier to lop off some doorstop than cook a lunch." Cass and John happily tucked into their dessert as if it were some glorious treat instead of –well, fruitcake. Dobby also tentatively took a bite, glancing at Hermione. With a feeling of intense nausea, she trimmed off and prepared to taste the 'doorstop,' only to be startled by a loud sound like an electric guitar. 

"If we could have your attention for a minute," a familiar voice announced. "Since tonight's dance will feature karaoke singing from students and staff alike, we have a special number to begin the night's festivities. Ladies and gentleman, I give you, the Gryffindors!"

An acoustic guitar riff began, with Seamus Finnegan of all people playing it, and then Harry appeared at the microphone in a black leather jacket to sing the song: 

_"Come out Virginia, don't let me wait  
You Gryffindor girls start much too late  
Aw, but sooner or later it comes down to fate  
I might as well be the one  
You know that only the good die young!"_

Dimly Hermione realized that not only was Ginny absolutely gobsmacked, but Cass had considerately switched the Gibraltar-sized rock of fruitcake for her real favorite, pumpkin pie with wizarding whipped cream. It reshaped itself like clouds as one ate the stuff, but Hermione was riveted to Harry's serenading and eventually dancing with Ginny. Privately she wondered how much Ogden's Old Firewhiskey Hagrid had used to prevent Ron from homicide, but then she noticed him playing the saxophone solo. Evidently he had come to terms with his best friend dating his only sister, or else he saw Harry as the least of all the evils among the male students of Hogwarts. 

The Gryffindor boys (including Neville on drums,) were followed by a stirring punk rock rendition of 'Deck the Halls' by some Hufflepuffs, and a jazz trio from Ravenclaw playing selections from 'A Charlie Brown Christmas.' Cho Chang had obviously had more than a few piano lessons in her time.

By far the most showstopping number was Winky and a trio of female house-elves in Motown sequin dresses singing 'You Don't Own Me' in full Lesley Gore style. One of the funniest was Padma and Parvati Patil doing 'Sisters' from the movie 'White Christmas' when one of the feather fans escaped Padma and began to fly about the room. (Ginny had _warned_ them not to buy their props at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, but did they listen?) Dumbledore for some reason felt that 'If I Were a Rich Man' from 'Fiddler On The Roof' was appropriate, and Professor Flitwick started 'The Time Warp,' which went on for seven choruses as nearly everybody including the house-elves danced. It was dead bizarre how many wizards liked 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show.'

"Come now, Hermione, do take a whack at it," Harry cajoled, gesturing toward the stage. "It's fun."

"And yes, Severus, the staff _are_ required," Minerva announced with an evil grin.

"Well, we're game," John Tyler spoke suddenly. He and Cass got up, he took a seat at the piano, and she accio'd a weird-looking guitar.

"Students and staff, I give you our guests from America, John and Cass Tyler," Dumbledore introduced. "Accompaniment?" he inquired under his beard to John.

"Nope," he answered, playing the piano as if he had been born with a metronome near his arm. Cass added some Spanish-sounding guitar, and their song started.

_"Let our love be a flame, not an ember,"_ Cass began,  
_"Say it's me that you want to dismember."_

_"Blacken my eye, set fire to my tie,"_ John added.  
_"As we dance to the Masochism Tango!"_

By the third riotous stanza, the entire Great Hall was ringing with laughter. John did something to the piano that made it play of itself, and he danced with his wife in a manner that would have been close to scandalous had it been students doing it. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall exchanged glances of 'oh, well, they're newlyweds,' and followed the act by singing 'I've Got You, Babe' together, which was very sweet. Then Draco Malfoy spiked his hair on end and sang a Brian Slade song that sent most of the females and a good half of the guys into fits. 

"That was a little on the fairy side, wouldn't you say?" Cass asked Snape.

"Excuse me?"

"The blond fellow, the door swing both ways?"

"Door?"

"What store's he shop at?"

"Cassandra, considering that you are not only a married woman but several years Mr. Malfoy's senior, one wonders what your motive is in asking."

"I just think that the ditzy-looking one with the two big guys fancies him."

"That would be Pansy Parkinson, and I believe she does."

"And _doesn't_ she look like a simpering git?" Cass asked vituperatively. "I saw her before the Ball, _kicking_ the sweetest cat."

For a moment Severus watched the American glower, fearing that in this fit of pique she could well hex his student, which would go over with the Death Eaters like a lead balloon. It occurred to him suddenly that werewolves were not normally cat lovers.

"Tell me, what did the cat look like?"

"Oh, cute little skinny one, sort of yellowy-red eyes."

"Scrawny, sort of suspicious-looking?"

"Yeah."

"By Salazar, someone's finally done it,"Severus mused.

"Done what?"

"The feline you speak of is called Mrs. Norris, the pet of our caretaker. Not being one to speak ill of animals, but every student in the building wants to kick that beast."

"Fucking English," Cass observed bluntly, tossing back a small glass of Firewhiskey as if it were water. Snape stared at her in mute awe. No female he had ever known –save of course Minerva McGonagall- could down booze like that.

"Please don't think we all hate cats," Hermione asked, hoping to smooth things over. "Mrs. Norris is just- well, she's not exactly incredibly nice."

"Oh, she's a conniving little snitch and you know it," Ron observed, coming up from behind her and eying the remains of the fruitcake. "How'd you like that?"

"Ronald Weasley, you are a gastronomical sadist," Hermione retorted.

"I like fruitcake," Cass observed, swallowing a bite. "You must be Ginny's brother. I loved the story 'bout you driving the flying car."

"Ginny told you that?" Ron looked just a little crestfallen.

"We both did."

"Hermione!"

"It's not like everybody in the place _didn't_ know," Snape remarked. 

"Perhaps the exploit could be immortalized in song," Cass suggested, fingering her guitar strings lovingly. "There again, I also hear you're good at chess." She impaled yet another bit of fruitcake with her fork. "Will you be in the library tomorrow at three?"

"Er- I suppose… -why?"

"Always wanted to learn how to play. Dad and I used to gamble on checkers games, maybe we could do that."

Ron's eyes lit up momentarily and he agreed to be there at five 'til four with his new chess set that Harry had given him. Padma Patil appeared at that moment and took him by the arm, causing the redhead to grin and depart. Snape frowned.

"I've read your record, Cassandra."

"An' what?"

"Hustling students?" Snape gave her one of his best frowns and Hermione looked at Cass in shock.

"I wasn't going to hustle him!"

"You expect me to believe that you can't play chess?"

"Well, I could play it," Cass retorted defensively. "It's just that I don't know what the pieces do, or how to kill with 'em, or which one you're supposed to keep checking or why, or-"

"How could you never have played chess?" Hermione asked. "It's the most popular board game in the world."

"Actually, it isn't, Miss Granger. There's a Muggle money game that's been beting it for several decades." Snape refilled his glass and contemplated her surprised and then calculating look.

"Yes, that's right…Monopoly. We have a set at home."

"Now _that_ I can play," Cass announced. 

"So can I," Snape took a little sip of the pumpkin juice. "Lucius Malfoy likes to play it for real money."

"What playing piece do you like best, sir?" Hermione asked.

"It's a party, Miss Granger, you can drop the 'sir'," he replied shortly. "I always liked the little car, myself."

"Top hat for me," John asserted.

"I like the little dog."

"Somethin' just occurred to me," Cass said, picking up her guitar. She plucked one string deftly. "Sing that note, Sev."

"I do not sing."

"Yes you do, Severus," Minerva called over her shoulder.

"Fine." He did as he was told, obediently singing each of the eight notes Cass threw at him. A genuinely weird look crossed her face, then the American turned to Hermione.

"Now you."

"I can't sing!"

"You can talk, can't you?" Snape remarked acidly.

"Seriously, Cass, you do not want me singing! I- but- -my voice…it peels wallpaper!"

"I don't see any," Cass replied, grinning. "Come on, or I'll have Dobby bring you more fruitcake."

"I'll join you if it'll help," John offered.

"Oh…alright."

John wound up reaching over and casting a Sonorus charm on Hermione to make her nervous tones audible, but apart from being so scared she was ashen, she wasn't bad. Cass grinned broadly and shouldered her guitar.

"Come on, then."

"What have you got in mind?" Snape asked. By way of reply, Cass turned a napkin into a black fur hat and placed it on his head. "Oh, no! Absolutely not, Cassandra!"

"Whyever not, Sevvy?"

_"Don't call me that!"_

"Cass, maybe we shouldn't make them sing," John suggested.

"But they're so perfect for multi-part harmony!"

"They probably just don't have the self-confidence," the werewolf answered. "It's a pity, too. Must be a failing of the English upbringing." Cass sighed theatrically.

"True. What happened to England since the Beatles' time?"

"If you two think that reverse psychology will work on Hermione and I for one minute," Snape threatened, but Hermione was already bristling.

"Professor, I think I know just the song." Cass and John high-fived under the table as Hermione, normally so nice and bookish, dragged Severus to the side of the stage and got in line.

"Are you mad?" he asked her. It was a fair question.

"Didn't you taste the pumpkin juice?" she whispered furtively. "We'll sing tonight whether we like it or not."

"Terpsichora potion!" Snape fumed for a few moments and then realized the import of this. "You picked that taste up when I didn't." His astonishment made his velvety-stern voice sound almost tender.

"You were a little distracted –Professor."

"Twenty points to Gryffindor for your sharp tongue, Miss Granger." Their faces weren't all that far apart, and Hermione mentaly vowed to get some Dreamless Sleep potion. "What song did you actually have in mind?"

"Er…I sort of –didn't."

"You were bluffing against Americans?"

"Unfortunately."

"Gryffindors," Severus cursed in exasperation. "Well, have you any ideas now? Or does the library not include music?"

"The only song I can think of right now is 'Yellow Submarine'! You aren't making this any easier!"

"I'd rather hear Voldemort sing Sinatra than endure _that!"_ Snape growled darkly. Their turn had arrived and they took the stage. "Why don't I just play something on the piano and _you_ can sing?" he whispered.

"You're the boss," Hermione retorted angrily.

"Abrave selection," Dumbledore remarked. "Didn't know you liked Brian Setzer, Severus."

***************************************************************** 

The second-youngest Weasley dropped his glass in shock.

"Tell me that I am not seeing that," Ron pleaded.

"I think it is," Harry replied, face white in horror. "They're singing."

_"Together,"_ Ron grimaced.

"They're _liking_ it," Ginny observed, stifling a grin.

"Isn't your professor a sexy git?" Cass inquired, coming up behind Ron with her husband in exactly the way the redhead had snuck up on Hermione. Ron had to be thumped on the back or he would have choked to death.

_"You've got me beat up and down,  
Inside-out and across!"_ Snape did indeed have a sexy voice.  
_"But in the middle of the night,   
When the moon is shining bright, ah,  
You're the boss!"_

The lyrics stopped and became a swing dance break. John idly twirled his wand between his fingers like a swizzle stick and Severus spun Hermione similarly. Cass elbowed him and the words resumed. Being the salacious sort of song that it was, professors and students alike _were_ sort of goggle-eyed. Draco Malfoy's jaw was resting neatly between his feet as he watched Hermione, and Madam Hooch let out a wolf whistle at Severus. 

At last, the ordeal was over, and the unfortunate pair took their seats to thunderous applause. Cass and John returned to their seats next to them after a few tense seconds.

"That was cool," John complimented Hermione.

"I have decided to kill myself," she announced sweetly and sarcastically.

"It wasn't bad," Cass protested.

"Yes, it was," Severus told her, looking even more homicidal than he had at the Shrieking Shack three years ago. "You are so incredibly lucky Albus banned Unforgivables over the holiday."

"Are all Americans manipulative gits?" Hermione asked.

"Nope. Just the Republicans," John answered.

"Why couldn't the Japanese have done a better job of bombing you fifty years ago?" Snape added.

"Why couldn't we have left you lot to the Nazis five years before that?"

"Why couldn't the French have let us kill you off?"

"Why didn't the potato famine spread a bit?"

"Pity the Native Americans didn't massacre all of the Puritans."

_"Weren't_ they pretentious apes?" Cass asked rhetorically with a grin before realizing she'd inadvertently agreed with Snape. "Dammit."

"Peace?" John asked, offering a Christmas present to Hermione from beneath the tree.

"Not yet, Yank-wolf," Snape commanded. "You two have to sing again."

"Name your revenge."

"'Yellow Submarine'!" chorused Snape and Hermione.

"Alright, we were bad." John admitted. "Open the present now?"

"This one's for Sevvy," Cass added, handing him the shiny hematite one.

"And these two are marked off to both of us," John handed one to his wife.

"Count of three?" Hermione suggested.

"One,"

"Two," 

"Three!"

Snape looked in amazement at the contents of the package. It was a handwritten Potions textbook, pocket-sized, dating from at least Dumbledore's schooldays. He looked at the names inscribed on the frontispiece, only to discover that it had once belonged to and been highlighted and annotated by Nicolas Flamel. Even more astonishing was the tag.

"Where on earth did you find this, Hermione?"

"Lucky find in Nooke's over the holiday. How did you know that I needed this?" She was eagerly starting on the book he had chosen for her. 

"Well, who's writing your Potions project?" he replied, looking in awe at the neat handwriting in the margins. "This is incredible."

"Thank you."

"No, thank you. I had no idea this even existed, it's…" For once Severus Snape was at a loss for words. "Thank you, Hermione."

"You're welcome," she replied, a little nervously. They watched each other's smiles for a few seconds before realizing the Tylers were staring at them in horror.

"What?"

Cass pointed to a clump of mistletoe levitating above their heads, holding her hands up.

"I didn't do it." John had his hands up, too, and both were shaking their heads. Hermione glanced to another table.

"Looks like Madam Hooch had a little too much to drink."

"Cass!" John chastised.

"She said she loved eggnog!"

"Well, there's only one way to get rid of it," Hermione sighed.

Very gently, Professor Snape leaned over and kissed his student, now his friend, on the cheek. She did the same, and then very chastely they kissed each other on the lips.

"Aww." Cass and John thought it was very sweet, even if the Brits were blushing red as the Gryffindor banners. Snape pulled out his wand with a sarcastic look and levitated the mistletoe over to them.

"Turnabout's fair play."

************************************************************ 

A/N: Sorry it took so long! Reviews? Oh, and Nooke's Bookstore belongs to Quillusion, the sick song ideas belong to my insane sister, and the concept of fruitcake for meals is one of my holiday joys. I actually do like the stuff, so all unwanted fruitcakes can be sent to the McNeville Garret where we insane Irish writers live. Thank you for your time.

-Jan McN.


	7. Trevor Dies! Nooo!

A/N: And now things get a little darker…dun dun da!

Chapter Seven: Teeth and Claws

"Move it, Mudblood," Draco Malfoy hissed, shoving Hermione. They and a few others were taking the train home on Boxing Day to see their families, not wanting to miss the anuual Yule Ball. Hermione stumbled as he knocked her aside, scraping her knee on the harsh asphalt of the train platform.

The only thing she remembered saying was a terribly unladylike Muggle word she had once heard on 'Absolutely Fabulous', her grandmother's favorite show. Whatever Patsy's favorite term meant to the wizard world, Hermione knew it shouldn't do what it seemed to be. Draco Malfoy had been turned upside-down and was being shaken as if caught in one of Fluffy's jaws. 

"Get off!" he screamed in a remarkably high, frightened voice. The invisible jaws obeyed, dropping him roughly onto the cement. His right leg let out a sickening crunch. Hermione looked away as the Slytherin screamed in pain. Crying, he hobbled onto the train going north. 

"W-wait 'til I t-tell my f-father," he gasped, half-sobbing, half-shouting, and definitely furious. Hermione was appalled and got up from where she had fallen as the train puffed away.

"That little prick," Ginny cursed, racing to her friend up. "You alright?"

"Ginny! You didn't-?"

"Didn't what?"

"That was Malfoy! He's going to tell his dad that we broke his leg!"

"Hermione, I didn't do anything!" Ginny protested, looking over her friend's knee without a thought for the Slytherin. 

"Damn straight." Both girls spun around to see their dark-haired lycanthrope dinner guest. "Fucking bastard, I should have got both of 'em."

"Cass!" Ginny cried. "His father's a Death Eater!"

"And he can eat me, too!" Evidently the American was pissed in every imaginable sense of the word. "That little scumbag stomped on somebody's toad!"

"Oh, no, Trevor!"

"I tried to save him, but that asshole crushed the poor little guy to death." Cass drew a sad little greenish corpse from the pocket of her denim coat. It was indeed Neville's beloved pet. "Whose was he?"

"Our friend Neville's."

"Neville Longbottom?" Ginny and Hermione nodded and Cass bit her lip. "We have to tell him, I guess –is there a pet shop in Hogsmeade?"

"You want to buy him another toad?"

"Yeah, he'll never know."

"Cass, Trevor's nearly seven. Neville would know."

"I've some Age Potion!"

"I don't think that would fool Neville. He loves his toad." Hermione was astonished at how fifteen-year-old Ginny was comforting the sad grownup. Cass very quietly began to cry. "It's alright, Cass, he won't be mad at you."

"I'm not afraid of that! Trevor was Neville's pet!" The American was openly sobbing now. "Your pet's like your kid and your brother in one person. A pet's not just some animal."

"I know," Ginny said sadly. "Errol passed away over last summer. He was our owl."

"Trevor didn't pass away, though, Ginny. He was murdered." Cass held the little toad up and gently kissed it. Hermione and Ginny stared. "I thought it might help."

"I can catch a later train. Mum and Daddy'll understand," Hermione offered.

"No, you'd better go," Ginny counseled. "I'll go with Cass and we'll bring Ron and Harry, too."

"Alright…see you after New Year's."

As Hermione got on the train, she saw Ginny put an arm around Cass as the pair walked off. That struck her as strange; grownups usually didn't break down in front of kids. She came to the conclusion that Americans must simply be more open about emotions and that sort of thing, sort of like the French or Italians. She remembered how Fleur Delacour had cracked open a bottle of champagne and celebrated St. Joan of Arc's day, inviting Hermione, Harry, and a very gobsmacked Ron to join in as well as the rest of Gryffindor. Ron had, naturally, wound up as plastered as a ceiling, and Professor McGonagall would have made his fate a terrible and a bloody one had Fleur not been singing the Marsellaise at three a.m. as well.

 Hermione had always liked riding on trains. It was, as her father said, a glorious opportunity to read, and she managed to get through about half of the potion ingredients guide Snape had given her. She might have finished it by King's Cross if not for the inscription inside the front cover, which she read at least forty times. It was simple and direct, as befitted Snape, but with many possibilities as to the words' full meaning. The train had passed Dinsford by the time she realized this was almost as bad as her Lockhart thing and bought a box of Every Flavor Beans to distract herself.

Prune. His hair was downright disgusting and his nose reminded her of Edgar Allan Poe's darker verse. Carrot. He was not physically her type, despite being nicely taller than her. Hamburger. He did have a sort of gracefulness, despite the robes making him remind her of a bat. Crisps. He was incredibly intelligent in an attractive way. Cinnamon bun. His hands were wonderful, just the sort that'd be nice to hold in winter when she'd forgot her gloves. Chocolate. His eyes –oh, Merlin, the eyes! 

Hermione bit down on a fruitcake-flavored bean and returned from her reverie. She choked and sputtered and grasped her throat for a few moments, before coming to the inevitable conclusion of what she was. She was a freak, and she might learn to like fruitcake.

***************************************************************** 

Cass had evidently been trying her best to tell the story solemnly to the boy, but finally her voice broke and Severus continued. He had been gently reminding Neville –by his standards- that he would need a new cauldron since the last one he had melted when a flurry of feminine outrage descended on him. An either hung-over or extremely premenstrual Cass Tyler had smacked him boldly across the face. She then let fly the worst strand of curse words, derrogatory slang terms and bad English he had heard in his life since his Quidditch days. He doubted Minerva could top Cass vituperatively, if she could in consumption of alcohol.  Snape had watched Neville Longbottom's eyes grow wide as a woman –and a young one at that- cursed his teacher out. It was finally Ginny Weasley who cleared her throat loudly enough to wake Salazar Slytherin and stopped the flow of well-aimed obscenity. It seemed that Draco Malfoy had murdered Trevor the toad. Cassandra had the remains wrapped in a Gryffindor-colors handkerchief, which Snape took from her as Ginny hugged the American.

"You have my deepest sympathies, Mr. Longbottom," Severus said as gently as he could. "I assure you that Draco Malfoy will be punished."

Neville's pale round face softened as he accepted Trevor's remains. Snape realized suddenly that he had meant every word he had just said to this too-bereaved student.

"That's alright, Professor. Malfoy never had a toad like Trevor." The boy unfolded the cloth and looked at his slain friend without even flinching. "I'll stop by Hogsmeade this afternoon for the cauldron, sir. May I be excused to Professor Hagrid's hut?"

"Nothing can bring him back," Snape said impulsively, in case Neville was hoping Hagrid could help.

"I know, sir. I'd just like to ask Hagrid if I can bury him by the lake. Trevor liked it there."

"Of course." Neville nodded to Cass and walked off toward Hagrid's hut with Ginny. Severus had never felt like such a greasy git bastard in his life.

"I'm sorry –I don't usually go off like that," Cass apologized.

"You had every right to be angry with me for intimidating him under the circumstances. I promise you, Malfoy will pay for this."

The Yankee grinned.

"Don't get overzealous, Sevvy. I broke his leg not two minutes ago."

"You what?"

"Broke his leg. You know, one of the long bits he uses for walking."

"Americans!" Severus had seen a few Muggle mob comedies and the idea of the term 'legbreaker' being literal in the person of this wholly unintimidating almost-girl startled him. Also, she had put herself at grave risk. "How did you do it?"

"Levitate, shake, drop. Same way I play craps."

"Did he see you?"

"Nope. He had just shoved Hermione or I wouldn't have done things that way." Cass looked defiant all of a sudden. "But I would have hurt him somehow, Sev, kid or not."

Severus was not paying attention. If Draco thought Hermione had injured him, the Death Eaters would be at the Granger home or worse before you could say 'sod the Colonies'. 

"You do realize he's Lucius Malfoy's son?"

"Yep. Bet he gets his pricky side from –shit!" Cass bolted in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. Severus saw her slide to a stop when she reached an upward staircase and then heard her cry "Accio Bob!"

"What are you doing?" 

A broom landed in Cass's hand.

"Bob. My broom." The American swung herself onto the broom and was about to fly out a window before sense caught up with her. "Er- Sevvy?"

"Yes?" Snape was decidedly peeved.

"Where does Hermione Granger live?"

******************************************************************** 

Oddly enough, her parents weren't there to meet her at King's Cross. Hermione smiled and hailed a cab. Oftentimes after holidays her parents had to see emergency patients who had chipped a tooth on something hard in fruitcake –one of the reasons why they so detested it. Hermione had always been more independent than other children, and riding in a cab alone was no sweat to her. In fact, she always half hoped they'd have been called away so she that could. Cab drivers were lots of fun. The Muggle ones told interesting stories about what sorts of strange people and things they'd transported over the years, and the wizard ones had even wilder tales. This gentleman was no exception to the rule.

"Y' can sit up front if y'd like, Missy. 'Ard as 'ell, kids ridin' alone, 'specially when it's the holidays. Where can I take you?"

"Thirty-six St. James Avenue."

"Oh, where the dentists live? I had one 'ell of a popcorn in my back tooth once and Peter Granger dug it out. Didn' even 'urt. You'll be their daughter?"

"Yes. My name's Hermione."

"And 'aven't you grown up the spittin' image of your mum? Why, when I had that popcorn out, you weren't quite as high as me boot-tops and now you'll be what? Sixteen?"

"Yes, sir." That wasn't precisely true, but explaining Time-Turners to cabbies was beyond even Hermione's verbal prowess.

"Amazing how time goes by. That popcorn tooth hasn't bothered me since your dad patched it up. Right brilliant dentists, him an' your mum." The cabbie stopped at a red light and grinned at her. His teeth looked very out-of-place for England. "I've taken to brushin' my teeth twice a day since your mum gave me that cinnamon paste. That mint stuff tastes like rodents' piss, pardon th' expression."

"I love cinnamon toothpaste. Have you ever had those little hot candies, the tiny red ones?" The cabbie opened the glove compartment, revealing a fat bag of Red Hots.

"'Ave some," he offered jovially.

"Here, try one of these." She gave him a Pepper Imp. The cabbie seemed to love the wizarding candy, remarking on how it was even better than Cinnamon Altoids. He completely missed the smoke coming from his ears. Hermione didn't figure the Ministry of Magic would mind a little holiday bit of Fred-and-George-ism.

"Is this your street, miss? –holy cats!" The cab skidded to a stop. Hermione looked in horror at the townhouse she had grown up in, only to see flames billowing from it and a hazy green Dark Mark hovering overhead. She sped from the cab and saw Cass Tyler smash a window from inside with her robed elbow.

"I haven't found your parents! Catch!" Cass threw Hermione a teddy bear. The American darted out a second later with the family photo album and a toaster, of all things. Hermione was just about to rush inside when Cass grabbed her arms and bodily shoved her back.

"Let me go!"

"You sit down!" Cass shouted, throwing snow down her back. The American raced back inside just before the porch collapsed in a mass of sparks. Hermione let out a cry as she got up and tried to run inside again. She ran into Professor Snape. "Let me go, dammit!" 

Severus held the girl close even as she pounded weakly on him with her fists. She honestly believed her parents were inside the flaming house. Severus put a hand behind her head as she sobbed into his shoulder. Affection flooded through him like Firewhiskey.

A second later, Cass bolted out again and set Peter Granger's sheet music on top of her cloak in the snow, covering it up. The house fell so quickly afterward that Cass nearly got hit in the face with sparks trying to run in again. 

"Whoa!" she cried. "Hot damn!" An errant bit of her hair was on fire, but she didn't seem concerned. An Englishman in a white coat clapped some snow on her head.

"Did you see our little girl inside?" he implored of her, terrified.

"Oh, you must be Hermione's dad! She's right there." Cass indicated her sobbing friend to the dentist just as his wife panted up behind him. "Hey, Hermione?"

"Daddy!" Hermione cried, breaking away from Professor Snape and racing to her father's side. "Mum!"

"Hermione! Are you alright?"

"Of course! Where were you –were you in the house?"

"We went to the office! We saw the flames down there and thought you had gone inside!"

"The office isn't open on Boxing Day!"

"There was a woman who wanted a crown repaired. She offered us holiday overtime, so we went, and then she insisted on taking half an hour more."

"Good luck if ever I heard of it," Cass remarked, the burned lock of hair falling in her eyes. Peter and Janet Granger looked at her in shock. "Oh, sorry! I'm –one of your daughter's friends."

"Dad, Mum, this is Cass Tyler, and this is my Professor Snape. Cass, Professor, these are my parents," Hermione introduced breathlessly.

"Nice to meet you," Janet mumbled almost incoherently, watching her house burn. She saw the photo album on the ground and quickly snatched it up. "You didn't –you went into that fire?"

"Yep," Cass smiled a little maniacally. "Fireproof robes." Peter saw his beloved sheet music and quickly gathered the stack, thanking her profusely. Hermione still had her old teddy bear, Algernon, in her hand.

"This fire was no accident. I'm sorry, but we have to Disapparate," Snape announced.

"Oh, how neat!" Peter Granger cried. "Hermione's been practicing to get her license to do that!"

"Ma'am, Hermione, if you would hold on to me?" Snape offered his arms to the two Granger ladies. "Cass, can you help Mr. Granger out?"

"Sure thing." Cass promptly pulled off her belt, which was, by some weird fashion, a bungee cord, and hooked Peter Granger's hand to her own.

"Er...maybe I had better go with Cass," Hermione offered.

"Yeah. I haven't been doing it too long and Hermione's more used to it."

"Naw, that's okay," Mr. Granger smiled. A few seconds later they were at Hogwarts' gates. Hermione felt reluctant in a small way to let go of Snape.

"Is this your school, dear?" her mother asked. "It's beautiful."

"Hagrid?" Snape called. "He might be inside at supper –damn!" 

"He's like that to everybody," Cass clarified.

"Can we take one of the first-year boats?" Hermione asked.

"I think we'll have to," Severus confirmed. "Ma'am, sir, if you would step this way?"

In the boats, Hermione reflected on how terribly strange this was. Snape had placed his hand on her shoulder to steady himself as he steered like a Venetian gondolier. She briefly touched hers to his, and a tremor of warmth passed between them both. The light of the stars on the black water had never seemed romantic before, and the ice around the frozen edges of the lake was covered with glittering snow that looked like diamonds.

"Isn't it remarkable?" Mrs. Granger mused. "We owe our lives to that wealthy lady with the cross-cloven fourth cuspid."

"What did she look like?" Hermione inquired, incredulous.

"Perfect white, slight scar from a root canal under the second left molar-" her father began. Her mother took over a second later.

"Tall, blonde, really deep voice. Reminded me of Kathleen Turner –why?"

Cass grinned questioningly at Professor Snape, as if he might have brought about this small miracle. He stared impassively back for as long as he could, and then half-smiled very briefly.

Old school friends were always good for favors.


	8. Whap

A/N: I apologize for Trevor's death. It had to happen. I have composed a suitable eulogy, which appears in the following chapter. Here you go.

Chapter Eight: Whap

Hermione looked at her older friend, who had just shrugged off her robes and was pulling off her snowboots. Cass was wearing a simple Muggle T-shirt with writing on the front. As she stood up, Hermione realized what it said:

'**Please an Englishman. Shoot Yoko.'**

"Why in Merlin's name are you wearing that?" Snape asked. "It's nearly twenty below out there. And who is Yoko?"

"Yoko Ono..." Hermione's father seethed. "Yoko Ono is the spawn of the unholy."

"A Dark Muggle?" Snape inquired in confusion. Hermione had to stifle a grin as her father began the tirade she'd been hearing since babyhood.

"She is personally the justification for Hiroshima. Those damn Yanks missed."

"Yoko Ono was a Japanese-American singer who married John Lennon," Mrs. Granger explained mildly. "Many fans believe she was the reason the Beatles broke up and take it far too seriously." 

"Yoko is evil," Cass observed. "She practically disinherited Julian."

"You like the Beatles?" Mr. Granger asked hopefully.

"They're the best! I learned to read by listening to 'Sgt. Pepper' with the liner notes." 

"I like to play their songs sometimes. Used to be the only way to get Hermione to sleep when she was little."

"I noticed the pile of sheet music by her bed."

"It was remarkably brave of you to bring these things from our house," Mrs. Granger said, holding the photo album close protectively. 

"Naw. Seemed like the 'propriate thing to do."

"Cass, you could have been really hurt." Hermione was still cuddling Algernon the teddy bear. 

"It was rather impressive," Snape remarked dryly. "I especially admired catching your hair on fire twice."

"That's right!" Cass playfully batted at Snape's lank, greasy hair. "If I'd've let you in, you'd have gone up like a Roman candle." Snape gave her one of his best glares, but it seemed the overly-chipper American was immune to them.

"Is there a hotel of some sort in Hogsmeade?" Mrs. Granger asked.

"None safe enough," Snape replied. "You will be welcome at Hogwarts until a safe residence can be secured. The Ministry has a program similar to what Muggles call witness protection which can shelter you."

"The Ministry?" Hermione inquired. "Wouldn't Luc –the Death Eaters, I mean- be able to find them then?"

"'Mione's right. We have to go to the mattresses!" Cass announced, clearly having been waiting since her childhood to say that line.

"The what?" Snape asked. Cass sighed as if dealing with idiots.

"We have to go outside of legal channels. In 'The Godfather,' whenever there was a war between the Families, men would stay in apartment buildings with mattresses on the floor. To go to war is to 'go to the mattresses.'"

"So you're saying," Mr. Granger asked, "that we're going to stay in an apartment building?"

"Well, no, I just meant that we can't use the Ministry. I would suggest a more Mafiosish way of hiding you."

"We're hiding?" Mrs. Granger went suddenly white.

"From the Death Eaters. You aren't the only ones," Snape explained.

"Will Hermione be safe here?"

"There's noplace safer than Hogwarts in this country," Cass smiled. "I know one place that'll be just as safe for you."

******************************************************************** 

"This is Gryffindor Tower," Hermione explained. "To get in, we have to give the password."

"What is it?" her dad whispered.

"Turtle tails."

Peter Granger gave the password to the Fat Lady and was most amused when the portrait hole swung open. Janet Granger followed her husband and daughter and immediately squeaked in surprise, seeing what looked like an improptu ritual sacrifice in the Common Room. Students in school uniforms, complete with red-and-gold ties, were surrounding a table on which a dead toad reposed atop a festive lace doily.

"_Hermione_," she hissed. "What is going on?"

"Ah, guests," Ron greeted solemnly, "come for the funeral?" He shook hands with Mr. Granger and smiled politely. "It's good to see you both again," he whispered. 

"How charming, Ronald!" Mrs. Granger observed, more relieved that the funeral wasn't a sacrifice than really all that pleased. "Do all pets have funerals here?"

"Well…yes, ma'am, all of the dead ones do."

"Trevor belonged to my friend Neville," Hermione clarified, gesturing toward her friend.

"Oh, yes!" Mr. Granger offered his hand to the clearly grieving but calm boy. "In the first letter Hermione sent home, she told us about how you asked her to help you find your toad and how it made her feel like she would make friends here. I'm very sorry to hear he passed away."

"Trevor was murdered," a cold voice suddenly remarked from behind them. The Grangers and Neville spun around to see Cass and John, the werewolf couple seeming almost to snarl. "I transfigured an orange box for him, Neville," John announced, handing the boy a toad-sized coffin with what looked for all the world like satin Gryffindor-print lining.

"Thank you. Trevor liked the smell of those."

Gently, Ginny lifted the maltreated toad and placed him into the small coffin. The lace doily was, if you looked closely, a bit lopsided, and it seemed to be crocheted from the same sort of yarn that went into Weasley sweaters. Ginny placed it on top of Trevor and tucked him in. 

"As the Quidditch Captain of Gryffindor," Katie Bell announced solemnly, "I ask that everyone wear a black armband to next Thursday's match, where we will dedicate the game to Trevor's memory, and Lord willing, beat the shit out of Slytherin." 

Nobody laughed, but there were many solemn nods.

"I remember how Trevor ate anything we offered him," Ron eulogized sadly. "He turned into so many different things, and not once did he complain."

"Trevor was a great toad," remarked Harry. "I remember how much fun we all had looking when he got lost."

Several people related their Trevor memories, some of them wistful, and a good many rather funny ones, like when Alicia Spinnet told about finding him in her lingerie drawer. Sometimes Neville grinned, once or twice he laughed, but generally he had a calm, carefully composed look.

"I remember he used to catch flies when we were studying for exams and it got hot," Dean Thomas recalled. "One time he ate a mosquito right off my arm."

"He slept on my pillow," Neville said calmly. The round-faced boy seemed determined not to cry and was succeeding. "I know not everybody liked him, because he was just a toad, and I know that a lot of you would probably rather not be here. But it's- -it's really good of you to do this. Trevor would have liked hearing the good things you've all said, and he'd probably be most happy because it's a nice thing to do when somebody's lost their pet. He wasn't anything but a little toad, but he was a good toad, and I know he's gone where all good pets go."

Ginny and Harry carried the little coffin down hrough the halls, followed by a solemn procession of Gryffindors. The funeral procession headed out to the snow-surrounded lake, where Trevor's grave had been prepared by kind Hagrid. Mr. and Mrs. Granger were clearly a bit confused by this, but they followed politely and Hermione heard her mother whisper an old St. Francis prayer.

"It's good of your friends to do this," her dad whispered.

Hermione thought the funeral proceedings considerate as well. Everything said about Trevor or to Neville was carefully worded so as to show respect and not imply scorn, and nobody acted like they found the burial of a toad amusing. It wasn't, she realized, that anyone but Neville had especially liked Trevor, but because the manner of his death outraged the righteous nature of Gryffindors. It was a double injustice that it had been Neville's pet killed, when he had already had such terrible losses in his life. Also, Draco Malfoy was not only fully deserving of, but an exquisite target for righteous hatred. 

A soft sound made Hermione look behind her. Cass was crying bitterly into John's shoulder.

"I should have broken both his legs," she whispered. "I could have hurt him worse for doing this."

"You did good, Cass," John comforted his wife, who seemed increasingly younger than Hermione had first thought. "We'll _take_ _out_ the Death Eaters for programming that boy evil."

"They already hit Hermione Granger's house," Cass confessed. "Fire. Could've killed them all."

"Bastards."

"It was my fault for hurting him. I shot from the hip again."

"Maybe it's a good thing," John observed. "They'll assume they're dead and they'll leave Hermione alone for a bit at least."

"I was thinking maybe I could make up for it. I'll ask Dad if they can stay with him."

"I think that's a great idea. Do they look like you or him –passable as visiting relatives?"

"Not a bit. I was thinking Dad could pass them off as dentistry professors."

"How clever!" John appeared to like the idea, a slow smile spreading across his face. "And they're Muggles, right, so your dad's a perfect place. They won't have to deal with odd wizard things."

"I just hope Dad doesn't frighten them."

"Well, yes, he can be sort of odd."

Hermione couldn't help smiling. Lucius Malfoy would never think to look for her parents somewhere in America. 

"Hermione?" John asked suddenly, surprising her out of her reverie. "Do either of your parents mind classical music?"

"My mother likes it."

"Oh, excellent!" Cass grinned and opened a bag of Every Flavor Beans. "Daddy's a professor of language at Carnegie Mellon University and he- -well, sometimes Dad is a little strange." Cass abruptly crossed her eyes and gagged suddenly. "Ecch. Want some of these? I think that was a carrot one."

Hermione accepted a few beans, the first one of which seemed to be cheddar flavored.

"My parents are sort of literary. Where in America does your father live?"

"Pittsburgh, naturally. The weather should be nice and horrible."

"I'm sure they won't mind. We are English, after all."

"Speaking of," Cass appeared to be suddenly remembering something. "Is there a theatrical district in London?"

"The West End, why?"

"I was thinking that sometime John and I might go and see something…maybe haul your Professor Sevvy along as well." John had walked a few yards away to speak to someone, and Cass lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I'll need you to go, otherwise John and Sev'll just talk potions things all night afterward."

"Wouldn't they anyway?"

"Yes, but that way _we_ can talk about charms and arithmancy and things. I'm lousy at potions, by the way. However do you _stand_ doing a thesis project on 'em?"

"Well, it is kind of an acquired academic taste, I guess." Hermione was a little uneasy that Cass seemed so colloquial. "I also felt it would be a challenge."

"So you're the glutton-for-punishment sort, I guess?"

"Yep. I also knew it would give me at least one hour a night free from Quidditch discussion."

"Do you play?"

"Nope."

"I play Chaser or Keeper sometimes. Not too much height involved there." Cass scratched her ear rakishly. "So…you like Potions a lot?"

"Well, yes." Hermione thought she had made that point.

"Okay…the thing's this. I need some help cooking somethin' up."

"I'm sure Professor Snape wouldn't mind me doing something extra –it's not illegal, right?"

"No, just –I'd rather you not tell Sevvy." Cass shoved her hands in her pockets. "It's the sort of thing somebody might take the wrong way, if he's a guy and all, and I don't want him ragging on John later."

"Oh…a girl thing."

"Per'cisely."

"Oh. I can help."

Cass suddenly seemed to deflate with the volume of her relieved sigh. 

"Thank you, Hermione…that's really nice."

"Aren't you cold?" Ginny appeared, having clearly noticed that Cass was wearing only a t-shirt in the Scottish winter twilight. 

"Nope. Say, how soon can you get the cauldron and stuff into that bathroom you told me about?"

"Ginny!" Hermione was surprised. "You told her about that?"

Ginny shrugged.

"She asked."

"Oh, yes! I'm sure Cass just came walking up and asked if there was a place where we could brew potions illegally!"

"Yep." Cass grinned.

"Oh, gods! It'd better not be Polyjuice again. That stuff reeked."

"Naw. Just an…er, a-"

"Fertility potion," Ginny supplied.

"Gins!" Cass protested. "Announce it at the Quidditch game, why don't you?"

"Speaking of," Ginny whispered. "Stow it, the boys are coming."

Harry, Ron and Neville walked solemnly up to Ginny, Cass and Hermione.

"Mrs. Tyler," Ron began. "You have performed a great deed in avenging the innocent."

"Further," Harry added. "We have been informed that you displayed considerable valor in the bold rescue of Hermione's teddy bear amid a great conflagration caused by Death Eaters. We have also been informed by Ginny that the reason why your fringe is short on the left is because it looks burned off."

"For all of these," Neville said solemnly, "we hereby name you to the Order of Prongs, and hold you as an honorary Gryffindor for life." With great ceremony, Neville pinned a small badge depicting a stag onto Cass's t-shirt. Harry produced a crisp new piece of parchment and unrolled it.

"Here is a newly updated edition of the Marauders' Map, in recognition of your bravery and to keep you from getting lost. To make it appear, speak the phrase 'I solemnly swear I am up to no good.' When finished, remember to say 'Mischief managed' and wipe it clean, lest some vile Slytherin discover it."

A second later, Cass found herself holding the map, being kissed on both cheeks by a lot of rather handsome Gryffie boys. Ginny and Hermione could not withstand this final solemnity, and cracked up.

"Er- uh, thanks awfully." Cass stammered.

******************** ****************************************** 

"Narcissa!" a strident female voice called, echoing luridly from the vaulted ceilings of Malfoy Manor. 

"I'm right here," the lady of the house replied from the graceful divan where she seemed to be sewing. "Really, Severus, that potion looks sick on you."

The form of Melindra Parkinson blurred into Severus Snape.

"I did think it was a little much, but it's really the only way to get past those damn Goyle brothers. Can't you make them wash every third Sunday?"

"Half of their stupidity might come off." Narcissa put aside the Slytherin quilt, revealing what looked shockingly like a Muggle supermarket bodice-ripper. "Did it work as planned?"

"Beautifully." Snape was staring at the paperback in disgust. Narcissa held it up for him proudly.

"Do you like it? I did think the models were a little overdone, but it's nice to be in print again."

"If Lucius knew you wrote those for fun," Severus warned. Narcissa let out a throaty laugh.

"Is it any worse than Millie Parkinson's addiction to Dreamless Sleep or Jenny Catesby's weakness for fanfiction?" The blond woman twirled her wand absently. "I still have yet to understand that one."

"Speaking of, I suspect her daughter is being hit."

"Bloody hell! If it's that filthy little Blodgett boy-"

"It is."

"Fuck it all!" Narcissa threw the bodice-ripper into a huge mirror, which shattered. "I swear, if it weren't for you and the Candyman, I'd haul off and ship Draco to Salazar's."

"Why don't you do that anyway this summer?" Severus idly picked up the novel and scanned the cover deprecatingly. "He killed Neville Longbottom's toad yesterday."

"Is that why he got his leg snapped?" Narcissa asked almost absently. "Maybe I shouldn't have had it fixed. Little shit…"

"By the way, it was not Miss Granger who broke his leg."

"Oh, I knew that. She's far too nice according to my sources."

"Your sources?" A rare smile glimmered at the sides of Severus' mouth.

"Darling, what do you think the maltreated Slytherin girls are _for_?" Narcissa smiled regally and picked up a disgustingly gooey object. "I've got more on you than you'd care to know about."

"What in Merlin's name are you eating?" Snape eyed the delicacy in disgust.

"Krispy Kreme donut. It's a muggle thing." Narcissa offered him the flat box, but he declined as if they had contained crunchy frogs. "I've got a box for you to take to Candyman."

"Could you have thought up a more obvious pseudonym?"

"Lucius still thinks it has to do with some Muggle film instead of being literal. Does he still like lemon drops?"

********************************************************************


	9. Snape Gets Muggled

A/N:  Another day, another chapter. Now I know how Charles Dickens felt when he wrote his serials, with multitudes of people writing letters to say how much they liked his work. Reviews are so nice, especially when the English teacher from Hell says I have no talent. One of the other kids also likes fanfiction.net and had been reading 16YaC religiously, and when she discovered not only that I _was_ Jan McNeville, but that the teacher didn't like my style of writing, she printed out every review I had ever gotten, cut them apart, and sprinkled the teacher's desk. It made a glorious mess and a very good point to Ms. Stick-Up-The-Arse, even if my friend does whack me on the head when new chapters don't appear fast enough. Here you go with the next bit.

Chapter Nine: In Which The Plot is Not Furthered a Single Bit  
                              or  
                              Snape Gets Muggled

"Sevvy?"

"Cassandra, I've asked you not to call me that."

"But it suits you so well."

"My name's Severus."

"That suits you, too," Cass remarked, absently nibbling a tea-biscuit. "You wear far too much black and look positively dour even at Christmastime. You're a perfect Severus."

"Then how does your calling me Sevvy fit into it?"

"Because you bristle and look like an offended cat. Doesn't 'e, 'Mione?"

Hermione, who was sitting _at_ the classroom table opposite the one Cass was sitting _on_, couldn't help but smile.

"Go ahead, Miss Granger, agree with her." Snape leaned back in his chair and gazed at the two females, one working diligently on a potion and the other sitting cross-legged on a table, eating tea-biscuits. "You women are all alike."

"Are not," they protested in unison.

"Sir, does this willow bark need to be shaved or sliced?" Hermione asked politely.

"If you don't _know_-" Snape began harshly.

"Oh, let me slice it!" Cass picked up a chopping knife, slyly winking to her friend. "It's the only part of potioning I really like."

"Potioning?" Snape asked. "I don't think I like that term."

"I think you have a knarl up your ass, per'fessor," Cass remarked sweetly. 

Not being a student, Cass could say pretty much whatever she liked, and oftentimes she abused the privilege wretchedly for the sheer joy of watching people who were students swallow their own tongues with mirth. Taunting Snape seemed to be her special favorite, and Hermione found herself biting her lip to keep from laughing.

"Mrs. Tyler, I have a student, whom you are distracting abominably." Snape indicated Hermione tolerantly. "Miss Granger, if you would like her to leave-?" he looked at her hopefully.

"I don't want you to be without company, Professor."

"Hang it all!" Snape picked up a tea-biscuit and bit it furiously. "Ow!"

"Professor?" Hermione got up and walked over to where her teacher was clutching his jaw in pain. "Are you alright?"

"Oww," he groaned. "Iff juff my tooth –go 'way."

"I'll go get 'Mione's parents!" Cass cried, a little too gleefully. 

"Yes, Professor, they're dentists. They're very good."

"Thuck off, both of you!" Snape protested. 

*********************************************************** 

Unfortunately for Snape, however, two eager young witches were a worse foe than Voldemort. Cass threatened to call the house-elves to carry him if he didn't go quietly, and Hermione promised that it would be quite painless. Finally, still holding his jaw, he was led up to a deserted classroom just off the Hospital Wing, where Peter Granger quickly set up an improptu surgery with his daughter's aid. 

"This chair will do excellently!" he observed, shoving a leather recliner to where he wanted it. "Dear, would you bring that swag-lamp over? Sit down, sir. I'll fix it properly. Heavens, what excellently shaped incisors!" Dr. Granger smiled excitedly. "You've broken a canine, but apart from that, you really have well-cut teeth. My wife has exactly that sort of a bicuspid." 

_"Huh?"_ Severus had never been to anything like a dentist in his life, and he was rather frightened that it would hurt. 

"Daddy means you have good teeth, Professor," Hermione translated. 

At least his student looked markedly capable. Severus assumed correctly by the knacky way she was helping her father to set things up that she had acted as his nurse in a pinch before. As Hermione threw a sheet over him, tucking it into his collar in lieu of a paper cloth, Severus realized the Muggle was apt to do something horrible.

"I really do wish we had X-rays here," Peter remarked.

_"Transpareo illusia!"_ Hermione conjured a see-through picture of Snape's entire skull slightly above his head.

"Whenever did you learn to do that, dear? Sir, if you could open your mouth a bit…" Snape did, and the illusion did likewise. "Hermione, I really do like that spell! See how his dentin layer's perfectly visible."

"My _what?"_

"The insides of your teeth, Professor. Muggle X-rays aren't quite as clear as Illusia charms."

"I'm just going to inject a little bit of novocaine," Peter announced, taking a hypodermic from his black bag and readying it.

_"Inject?"_ Snape sat bolt upright in the reclined chair. "You are injecting _nothing_ into me, Muggle!"

"If you'd rather, I could numb it for you, Professor." Hermione held up her wand, undisguisedly amused that the dread Professor Snape was petrified of needles. 

"Oh, no! You mad lot aren't touching my –ow!"

"Sir, I can promise you, it's only a little pinch." Judging my the slight grin on Dr. Granger's face, Hermione's letters home had not mentioned Snape in quite the light he was now meeting the teacher in. "I have a small tank of nitrous oxide, if you really feel squeamish."

"What'll that do?" Snape asked.

"Knock you out," the dentist announced bluntly.

_"What?"_

"Only for an hour or so," Hermione cast a disapproving look in her father's direction.

"Then what are you going to do to my teeth?"

"Repair the canine, probably drill-an'-fill the back molars –you've got a few cavities- clean the whole works, remove that extra cuspid-"

_"Remove?"_ Snape squeaked. "You don't mean –pull it out?"

"You've never really needed two, sir, and that's the cause of the malocclusion on the left side."

"The extra pointy tooth is making your bite crooked," Hermione explained.

"There is _no way in Hell_ I am letting you two knock me out and-" 

There was a dull 'thunk' and Snape collapsed into an unconscious stupor.

"Cass!" Hermione cried.

The American stood over the professor, shoe in hand.

"That wasn't really necessary," Dr. Granger chastised.

_"Someone_ had to shut him up."

Peals of laughter suddenly sounded from the door. Hermione looked past Snape and saw Harry and Ron laughing so hard they looked about to wet themselves. 

"What the sod are you doing here?"

"If only Neville could've saw!" Harry gasped. Ron gave Cass a bear hug.

"I love Americans!"

"Well, as long as you're here, boys, come wash your hands." Dr. Granger looked absolutely pleased to have more nurses. "Put on those aprons and some of the latex gloves. This poor man needs a full makeover."

************************************************************** 

"Is he awake yet?" Cass inquired.

"No, and I don't blame him, what with your whacking him on the head." Hermione was inspecting her Professor's newly-repaired teeth and surreptitiously doing her favorite bleaching charm on each. 

"Oh, good!" Cass picked up one of Madam Pomfrey's freshly cleaned bedpans and began to fill it with warm water at the sink.

"What are you going to do now?"

"I've brought contraband." Cass tossed Hermione a plastic Muggle grocery bag, which turned out to contain two bottles of Pantene Pro-V; not just shampoo, either, but conditioner as well. The elegant little letters on the front read 'for fine or especially oily hair.' Hermione gasped at the American's brazen nerve and ingenuity, but mostly the brazen nerve.

"You _aren't!"_

"_We_ are." Cass shoved a wheeled tea tray into place and began to soak Snape's hair with the warm water from the bedpan. "Come on."

"If he wakes up-"

"I'll knock him out again."

"Well…I will admit, I've always sort of wanted to." Hermione opened the shampoo bottle and sniffed at it.

"Go ahead, sister, unleash your fantasies."

"Okay."

Very timidly, Hermione drizzled a small amount of the product onto Snape's wet scalp. At Cass's enticement, she began to rub it in, and when the shampoo turned into lather it became too much. 

"Yes!" Hermione exulted and scrubbed wildly, feeling the glee as the clarifying shampoo stripped away all of the dungeon grease. "Oh, _yes!"_

"Ease up! That isn't the herbal stuff!"

"Stow it, Yankee!" Eagerly, Hermione began to rinse and repeat, giggling maniacally all the time. "Oh! Yes! Tiger!"

"This is madness. I'm going to get Ginny." Cass fled the room.

"Ask if we can borrow her hairdryer!"

************************************************************

A/N: I'm sorry, but that needed to be done, too. More later.   
-Jan McNeville


	10. The Purebloods' Punishment

A/N: I'm really glad to see everyone likes this so much. It is, after all, rather fun writing it. Here you go.

Chapter Ten: The Purebloods' Punishment

Dinner that evening in the Great Hall was marked only by two really fascinating events. The first was Snape coming in late with remarkably clean and slightly fluffy hair, and a more virulent snarl than his usual. He glared at Cass, who was seated with the Gryffindors in her husband's absence, and the American merely pointed to Hermione as if to say 'She did it!' At that, the professor merely rolled his eyes and sighed, knowing that the werewolf was definitely at the least a bad influence on the student he'd come to like.

A little later, over the crescent roll hotdogs, which noone had ever seen and everyone seemed to like, Dumbledore arose and tapped his fork against his goblet for attention.

"Students, I have an announcement to make." Everyone listened eagerly, especially Harry and Ron. Was it to be the grand punishment they hoped for, the expulsion of the hated Malfoy? Cass and Ginny snorted at the boys' eagerness, but were nonetheless on tenterhooks. Hermione, whose hands still tingled from the shampoo and wickedness, wasn't listening too much. 

"Our beloved gamekeeper and Professor, Hagrid, has informed me that he will be called away for a time on personal business." The Slytherins cheered and the Gryffindors groaned, so predictably as to make Cass giggle. "Rather than provide a less enjoyable substitute, it is at the suggestion of our Heads of House that a new class be provided at the Care of Magical Creatures time." 

Hermione's head snapped up. A new class? New classes meant new books, new curriculum, new stuff to learn! Harry and Ron cringed as her eyes lit up with unholy fire.

"I feel that education in cultures different from our own is the only path to wizarding tolerance," Dumbledore continued, conspicuously not glaring at the sons and daughters of Death Eaters at the Slytherin table. "It is with this in mind that I am pleased to announce Hogwarts' first American Muggle Studies class!"

Malfoy looked about to shit himself. Ron and Harry noticed his reaction and applauded Dumbledore with the rest of the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, actually standing and whistling as they watched their enemy fume. Dumbledore gently shushed the throng to continue his announcement.

"I am also very pleased to introduce our newest Professor, who will be teaching in Hagrid's place." It suddenly occurred to everyone in Gryffindor who it was. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Professor Cassandra Tyler!"

Nervously, Cass stood up. Malfoy mumbled something that was likely either 'filthy Yank' or 'dirty Mudblood,' at which she suddenly burst into smiles. The Gryffindors exploded into joy and quickly rose to hug and shake hands with their new professor.

But Hermione was again confused. Cass had clearly known what Dumbledore meant to announce, so why hadn't she mentioned it earlier? Also, how was she suddenly able to be a professor, if she was visiting Hogwarts as an academic? It suddenly occurred to Hermione that before this, there was really no good reason for Cass Tyler or her husband to be at Hogwarts.

Except for Snape. Despite the potions master's awful demeanor, Cass seemed sometimes almost to shadow him. Was she a spy sent by Voldemort to guard Severus from working for the Light? No, she was Muggle-born and almost offensively American. There had to be another reason. She might be a co-spy working with Snape, but then why was she making friends with students so eagerly and teaching? Maybe she had some kind of deeper connection. There had to be a more logical motive for her presence. 

Hermione looked at the grinning American. Her eyes were sunken slightly and her face was drawn, despite being quite happy. She was also very pale compared to John. To add to the oddness, Cass looked as she was or had been direly ill, and she was seeking a fertility potion, which lent weight to the sickness theory. Or was it something else? 

Now that her new professor's hair was out of it's ponytail, Hermione noticed how dark it was. It was also slightly _fluffy when it was clean. _

Startled, Hermione looked from Cass to Snape. 

The resemblance was shocking.

So that was why she hung around the professor so! They were relatives! Cass was clearly too young to be Snape's daughter; a sister perhaps? At the most they were maybe six years apart, despite their looks of not being quite their natural age. Maybe Snape's mother had moved to America and remarried, taking her young daughter, which would explain Severus' going to the Death Eaters. Now that he had returned to the Light and undertaken the difficult office of spy, his dear sister had returned to help her big brother Sevvy out. Hermione sighed from relief at finding the answer.

As Ginny would say, 'How sodding romantic!' 

************************************************************************ 

Lazily, the American stretched out on one of the tables. Hermione was chopping ginger root for a complicated potion, as Snape scowled over test papers at his desk. Abruptly, Cass sat up and pointed at Hermione.

"Ten points to Gryffindor!"

"What _for?" Snape protested, rising to his feet._

"Nothing. I just wanted to piss you off."

_"Arrgh!" Snape sat down and returned to snarling and scowling over his test papers. Cass, however, got up and joined Hermione at her table._

"What'cha doin'?"

"Chopping ginger roots."

"Smells lovely. What potion are the roots for?"

"Wolfsbane."

"I felt that you and your husband might be needing some," Snape remarked.

"That's so considerate of you, Sev!" Cass went over and hugged the potions master, which he seemed to resent slightly. "Normally we just chain each other up in some dark, preferably soundproof room, with a padded floor and maybe some soft lighting, a nice bottle of wine poured into dog dishes…full moons are so romantic, aren't they? Sometimes we-"

_"Stop!"_ Snape actually covered his ears in shock. 

Cass and Hermione looked at each other and grinned, watching the dread potions master blush, which he really looked cute doing. Severus was earnestly disturbed by the two of them. As he continued to pretend to correct papers, Hermione and Cass chatted and worked together merrily, Cass offering help and Hermione lightly instructing her. American education in potion-brewing was not what it was in Britain, and Cass remarked often that she'd never been good at it. It struck Snape as suspicious that the adult werewolf took orders from and worked with a student so easily. If he didn't know for a fact that she was a grown woman, married, and a rising officer in the American Aurory, he would have sworn the two females were the same age.

Quite abruptly, he noticed they had the same build as well. Cass was slightly more round-faced and Hermione was more feminine in shape, but shoulders, height, even the way they seemed to always be carrying a load of books was a perfect match. When their hair wasn't back in identical sloppy ponytails, it was the same bushy type, and they both had a strange habit of twirling their quill for a second before they wrote something down! 

Snape was amazed. They could only be relatives. Why else would they get along so well and so quickly, and why else did they look alike? He had often suspected Hermione was too brilliant to be entirely Muggle-bred, and Muggle-born cousins often displayed the family's first occurence of magic in one generation. What was more, he guessed they either had no idea or were keeping it a mischievous secret. Either one suited the pair of girls.

"Cassandra, are you intending to assist Miss Granger through her entire project as if you were her own personal house-elf?"

"I s'pose so, yeah," was the irreverent reply.

"Well, if you are, would the two of you please gossip about something more interesting?"

"How about books, Professor?" Hermione asked.

"Fine."

"Have you ever read _'Little Women'_?" Cass asked.

"Yes, of course. I was nine. Didn't you _cry_ when Beth died?"

"O'course!"

"Have you ever read _'James and The Giant Peach'_ by Roald Dahl?"

"I loved that! I ate three peaches in a row afterward and made myself horribly sick."

"Merlin's beard, I thought you meant grown-up books!" Snape looked at the two of them in disgust. "Even _'Quidditch Through The Ages'_ sounds more mature!"

"Oh."

"Have you seen the new sex magic texts Madam Pince had me alphabetize?" Hermione inquired next.

"Which ones?" Cass asked, perking up her ears.

"Well, there was some boring old drivel about contraceptive methods for hippogriffs, seven hundred pages with no pictures, and then there was this perfectly shocking one with a picture on _every_ other page."

"A new one?" Cass was blushing suddenly. Hermione pulled the book out of her satchel. 

"Copyright last August, actually. Wonder who wrote it."

"Oh, likely some old hag with a dildo collection the size of Ireland," Cass jested, giggling nervously. Hermione checked the book jacket.

"No, it's a husband-and-wife couple named Cat and Wolfe Allegheny."

Snape suddenly walked over and picked up the book.

"If I may ask, Cassandra, what is your middle name?"

"Antigone. My maiden name's Alcott, too, by the way."

"Cassandra Antigone Tyler. There's your 'Cat,' Hermione." Snape smiled meanly as the American went scarlet and Hermione's eyes went wide. "I believe she and her husband could both be 'Wolfe,' and I know for a fact that John loves to draw and is good at it."

_"Cass!"_ Hermione was genuinely shocked but also amused. The American sighed and glared at Snape.

"How'd you know?"

"The Allegheny is a river in your native town."

"City."

"Whatever. I can do research, too."

"Cass!" Hermione flipped through the scandalous book. "You wrote this?" She turned to a particular page and pointed out a paragraph. "Wouldn't that hurt a lot?"

"That's what the whipped cream's for," Cass explained.

"Oh, I see."

_"Alright!_ That will be _enough_ of this!" Snape took the text away from Hermione and placed it neatly on his desk. Then, abruptly, he glanced at the cover again. "Why in heavens' name are _you_ reading this, Miss Granger?"

"Can't a girl be curious?"

"It's on the bestseller list," Cass pointed out. 

"Actually, Professor, I was researching a certain area of human activity to see which ingredient modifications would be necessary to a certain potion." 

Normally a sentence like that made professors go 'Oh' and leave Hermione alone. However, Snape was not willing to let it drop.

"And what potion would that be?" He opened the book on the table and began to leaf delicately through it. "Contraceptives already? So much for Gryffindor piety."

"You bastard," Cass retorted indelicately. "She's helping me and if you don't quit being such a flaming son-of-a-bitch Slytherin closet queen with a Gothic fixation and a vial fetish, I'm going to rip your balls off and feed them to Filch's cat!"

For an absurd moment there was a stunned silence.

"PMS potion, sir," Hermione glibly lied.

************************************************************** 

Atop the freezing Astronomy Tower the next evening, Hermione watched the snowy and frozen lake. Severus slunk up behind her and murmured:

"Hello."

"Oh, professor, you startled me!" 

"Bit cold up here, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, rather." She pulled her cloak closer about her neck, watching their breath form puffs in the frosty air. "I just wanted to see if my Wolfsbane potion worked."

"Well, as it is Friday night, you may be out after curfew. You _are_ a prefect, after all." Snape pulled out a silver hip flask, drank some of the contents, and absentmindedly offered it to Hermione. With boldness intended to impress him, she accepted, and wound up choking a second later.

"I'm sorry...you don't usually drink Firewhiskey, do you?" Snape apologized, smiling slightly at the face she had made. 

"No."

"Any alcohol ever?"

"A bit of champagne once."

"That's almost totally different." He took another sip from the flask and offered it to her again. "This time, try to breathe through your nose as you swallow it." She obeyed and actually smiled afterward. "Better?"

"Much, thank you."

"I had my first cup of this in a chug-a-lot contest in my fourth year." Severus smiled wryly at the memory. "Madam Pomfrey –senior, that is, her daughter's our nurse now- let me vomit up everything I'd ever had to eat, forced half the lake down my throat, and gave me two Muggle aspirin to ward off the hangover. The very next day I taught myself to make my own whiskey."

"You wanted more of it after all that?" Hermione was incredulous.

"Merlin's teeth, no! I wanted revenge on those gits who gave me the stuff." Snape smiled wryly and took another sip. "I made it strong enough to strip chrome and melt hammer-heads."

"Did they like it?"

"Like it? Cissy Armfeldt had to drag Lucius Malfoy away from the windows the next morning. He was still raving drunk and wanted to duel the sun."

"I can't imagine him doing that."

"Oh, believe me, a lot of the old Slytherin families are worse than the royal ones." Severus stretched and sat down on the stone bench overlooking the lake, Hermione joining him. "There are drunks and wife-beaters and Dreamless Sleep addicts –those are usually the wives. I don't blame Cassandra for snapping young Malfoy's leg." He drew in his breath and watched it steam slowly out again. "Why am I telling you this?"

"Because...you don't want me to tell all of Gryffindor Tower you once got drunk?"

"A serviceable reason."

"I suppose I should tell you about the time I brewed an illicit potion in the girls' lavatory and turned myself into a part-feline."

"Actually, that was the subject of one of the funniest staff meetings we've ever had." Hermione looked at Severus in surprise. "The jokes about how you take after Minerva McGonagall were rather enjoyable."

"You joke about your students?"

"Well, not very often, personally, but Albus lets the jokes happen." Severus scratched one of his ears absently. "There have been quite a few hilarious Weasley ones."

"There have been quite a few Weasleys."

"How many Weasleys does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" Snape inquired. 

"Don't know."

"Just one, but he insists on playing with it for an hour and asks to keep the burned-out one."

"There is the occasional joke about you, you know." Hermione felt she had to admit this.

"I know. Some of them have been quite funny."

"How do you tell Professor Snape from a giant bat?" she asked.

"Bats are upside-down?" he suggested.

"Bats are likeable. That's one of Ron's favorites."

"I think that's a clever one. Have you heard Millicent Bulstrode's limerick about you?"

"Yes." Hermione looked decidedly pissed. "Personally, I was so impressed with the fact that she _knows_ that many words, I didn't bother to be angry."

"If it makes you feel any better, Blaise Zabini and Maria Catesby stuck up for you."

"They did?"

"Not everyone in Slytherin's a total git," Snape pointed out. "There's a great tradition of strong females, if they aren't forced to marry young and produce lots of inbred heirs." Hermione nodded slightly, having heard something similar before. "You know, Miss Granger, I used to wish you'd been a Slytherin. After this afternoon, I'm glad you're in Gryffindor."

"Sir?"

"I found out Marcus Flint has been beating Blaise when she visits him at Hogsmeade." Snape looked tense, almost like an angry parent whose child is being hit. "I found an excuse and banned her from trips for a month, but if you could keep an eye on her in the library, I'd appreciate it."

"Of course, sir."

"She needs a friend who isn't under some boy's thumb as well."

"I don't really plan on dating anyone."

"Really?" Severus looked surprised by this. "But you're so...nevermind. Whatever happened to Viktor Krum?"

"We're friends, actually, sort of bilingual pen pals. He's seeing a girl called Svetlana now."

"The rumor mill had it you two were seriously involved."

"Rita Skeeter _is_ a wretched old cow," Hermione remarked. "Viktor suspected _Harry_ had a crush on me and went to check it out, just to make sure he wouldn't be stalking me or something. He's very much the big brother type."

"I wouldn't say Potter. I'd say Weasley."

"You're mad. We argue for half the time in the day."

"Well there, I may well be mistaken. But if either of your two footmen were to fancy you, my money's on Weasley."

It was heartbreaking to Severus, the way she couldn't see herself as he could. He had finally decided to abandon the last scrap of greasy git reservation with her when she suddenly spoke.

"I can't see anyone fancying me."

"I can."

"You're my professor. Isn't it in the Self-Esteem Rulebook for you to say that?"

"One day you'll meet an intelligent man who knows what a gift your mind is and what a joy your heart could be to him. Then maybe you'll date someone."

Hermione sighed. She was starting to believe she already had met just such an intelligent man.

"Oh, look! There they are!" Severus pointed out the two wolves running across the frosty lawn below. Cass and John were fetching a tennis ball for Flitwick. Hermione couldn't help but smile. Wishing he could show her affection differently, Severus placed a warm hand on her shoulder.

 "I think that is a resounding A+ on your Wolfsbane Potion, Miss Granger."

************************************************************* 

A/N: Well, how's that for a scene with the two of them alone? Reviews?


	11. Tell Us, O Cassandra

A/N: And now for the chapter! Things will get even weirder soon. It's throughly expectable. Here you go.

Chapter Eleven: Tell Us, O Cassandra

Professor Trelawney breezed into lunch like a mournful dragonfly and announced that one of the students would be disappearing within the year. Cass, newly seated at the professors' table, having so far taught first, second, and third years with great success, merely smiled and offered to announce the news.

"I sense a little of the Sight in you, my dear," Trelawney replied, placind a jeweled hand on Cass' shoulder and smiling tragically. "Even your name bespeaks the misfortune of Seeing, which few of the unprivileged ever understand."

"I'm named after my grandmother, actually."

"She was a very well-accomplished sorceress, with especially pious manners?" the glittering charlatan inquired.

"Nope. She was a Muggle who liked bodice-rippers and gin."

"If you would make the announcement to the students, please?" Trelawney asked, a little less confidently. "I find that speaking loudly clouds my Inner Eye."

"No problem." Cass picked up her wand and cast a complicated spell. A moment later, the Great Hall rang with the sound of Creedence Clearwater Revival's song 'Bad Moon Rising'. Trelawney gave Cass the mother of dragonfly dirty looks as the students began to smile and enjoy the rowdy rock and roll music. "Well, it does get the point across, though, da'n't it?"

"Cassandra, do you mind?" Snape looked as if he had a migraine.

"Oh, alright, Sevvy, if you insist." Cass suddenly amplified her voice to shocking volume. "And now, students, one of your Professor Snape's favorites!"

She changed the song and suddenly the entire room went silent. Nobody could believe what the American had done. Barry Manilow in himself was bad enough, but 'Copacabana'? Anything but that! Snape stood and looked ready to murder her. Malfoy licked his chops. Cass' smirky grin diminished slightly and everyone knew the wreaking of havoc had to be at an end. Then suddenly, a whispery sound became audible.

__

"His name was Rico, he wore a diamond…"

Well, when _Dumbledore_ sings along, _everybody_ does!

*********************************************************************

After the shocking scene at lunch, the Gryffindor and Slytherin sixth-years were all anxiously awaiting their first American Muggle Studies class. They had all taken seats in a recently-cleaned classroom, decorated in a haphazard manner with Muggle things from rock and roll album covers to movie posters to a life-size cardboard cutout of Britney Spears. Noone was really sure what that was for. Harry looked determinedly away from it, bluhing, but Ron seemed to find Britney hilarious.

"Look at her eyes! Must be those Muggle pots!"

"Pot, not pots, Ron, and that's Britney Spears." Hermione, being not only Muggle-born herself but actually female, was considerably more knowledgeable in this particular area than Ron. "She doesn't do drugs, I think, but it's hard to keep them straight."

"Good afternoon!" a twangy-accented voice greeted. It was Cass, dressed in black professor's robes that didn't fit. "Welcome to American Muggle Studies class, where the rich and powerful come to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld!" Everyone looked at her blankly and she sighed.  
"Of all the gin joints in all the world, you walked into mine?"   
Stares.   
"Yankees in Tara?"   
Blank looks again. Cass sighed heavily and tried one last time.

  
"Do I make you 'orny, baby?"

The class burst into applause.

"Well, then! At least you lot know something!" The American took a seat on top of her own desk, sitting cross-legged as she often did on tables. "Okay, can anyone tell me the film reference?" About three students raised their hands. "Yes, Harry?"

"It's from 'Austin Powers,' ma'am."

"Right-o. Can anyone name any of the other ones?" Hermione raised her hand. "Oh, besides you! I know you know, ten points to Gryffindor!" 

The Slytherins were absolutely appalled by this. There were mumbles of 'favoritist,' 'biased,' and 'bloody unfair' for quite a few seconds. Cass simply stared at them until the noise subsided.

"Glad to hear you've decided to shut up now." She hopped off the desk and began to roll up the sleeves of her too-big robes. "Actually, kiddies, I've been sitting in on a lot of your classes lately, courtesy of one of Sevvy's more badly-guarded Invisibility Potions." 

As Cass spoke, she went about the room in what struck Hermione as a rather ludicrous parody of the potions master's walk. 

"I've noticed that you Slythies get quite the easy ride in ol' Sevvy's class, and bein' as how I'm such a filthy Mudblood, I've decided to be a biased overgrown bat as well. Jus' to balance things out, y'see." 

Hermione finally recognized Cass' robes, which were obviously stolen from Snape's closet. She had to bite her lip not to laugh, as did many other Gryffindors.

"You see, this is part of a grand American tradition, dating back to the first time we shoved our middle finger in you Brits' faces. We dirty Yanks tend to love freedom, independence, and doing whatever we damn well like, especially if we get to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable while we're at it. All of you who think Muggles are stupid things and who can't wait to line up to lick Tommy Riddle's ass, welcome to a crash course in reality. And if you don't stop mumbling under your breath, little Malfoy, I'll break the other leg."

__

'Holy shit,' was all anyone in Gryffindor could think.

"Now, since this class will be studying Americans, it is appropriate that we take part in a few American games. In addition to doling out more housepoints than even I can keep track of, I plan to keep score of your class rankings. At the end of the term, whoever has the best grades in the class will receive this." 

Cass held up a fat Muggle book, conspicuously marked 'American History.' 

"Since we all know who's going to do the best, I'm just going to give this to Hermione now." Cass threw the book and Hermione caught it. It was quite heavy, and she couldn't help but smile.

"As for the second-best grades, the winner there will be receiving Miss Britney Spears, who until that time is our class mascot." She gestured to the cardboard cutout. "And _no_, Mr. Crabbe, our mascot is not meant for in-class whacking material. Save it for the Common Room."

Ron shoved Hermione a hastily-scribbled note. It read:

__

'Cass is such a glorious bitch! Who knew?'

Hermione wrote a reply hastily and shoved it back.

__

'Recognize her robes?'

'Merlin's balls! How did she get them?'

'I'm not sure we want to know.'

Ron was evidently very pleased by the way Cass openly tortured the Slytherins. He almost applauded when she asked Malfoy a question and made him look an idiot. Her remark afterward actually made him sigh:

"Clearly, blood isn't everything." Cass winked cheekily at Harry as if to say 'payback time.' "And you, Miss Zabini, can you name for me the two greatest makeup artists in American history?"

"Max Factor and Kevyn Aucoin, ma'am."

"Holy shit. You get a lollipop." Cass fetched a Tootsie Roll Pop from a jar on her desk and tossed it to Blaise. "If you can tell me how many licks it takes to get to the center, I'll give you a can of Coke. Now for a harder question. Mr. Weasley, who invented the phonograph?"

"Thomas Alva Edison."

"Good one! Lollipop for you, too."

Hermione looked at Ron in surprise.

"My dad's got his book," he whispered to explain.

"Miss Parkinson, what is this object here in my hand?" Cass held up a deck of cards with the Coca-Cola polar bear on the box. Pansy thought for a few moments.

"A Muggle card game?"

"Well, sort of. They're just plain poker cards, except for this bear here. Can anyone tell me what it's doing here?" Harry raised his hand. "Yes, Harry?"

"It's a logo, ma'am, a symbol used by a Muggle brand."

"Right! Now, since I have to make up a seating chart for the lot of you, here is your first assignment. Neville, could you pass these out?" Cass handed him a ream of drawing paper and began putting boxes of Crayola things on the tables. "I want each of you to design your own logo for your desk-top. It's sort of like a coat of arms, but not quite. Here are a few examples." She pulled down a poster with several famous Muggle logoes on it, from the blue Ford oval to the Tri-Star pegasus to the little dot wearing sunglasses on 7-Up cans. "Try to make 'em nice and colorful."

Hermione glanced at Ron's picture, hoping for ideas. He was drawing a stylized Gryffindor lion with sunglasses riding a broom and holding a Beater bat. Harry wasn't quite as an adept an artist, but his picture of a winged angel clearly symbolized Ginny, at least in an abstract way. 

Finally, Hermione decided to start with a book for hers. Everyone was expecting it anyway. On a whim, she added a feather quill, reminded of the first time she made something fly. Finally, she drew a sparkling little potion vial in the corner. It wasn't all that bad, even a nice logo. Neville tapped her on the shoulder and held up his eagerly. It was a half-melted cauldron with a mushroom cloud coming out of the top.

"Brilliant, Neville!"

"Thanks," he grinned, looking over his drawing proudly. "I figured, what else makes everyone think of me?"

"It's well-drawn, at least," Malfoy spat condescendingly. "Certainly makes me think of Squibs."

Ron and Harry bristled, but Cass was already up from her desk.

"Fuck it all, I was having a nice nap. What've _you_ drawn, Malf'?" She looked at his picture and clicked her tongue. "Oh, well. You can _sort of_ tell what it is, and the color's okay." She turned it over and looked at it from a few angles. "Just one thing, what did you want a green earthworm for?"

"It's a snake!" Malfoy shouted.

"Oh, _right_. Sorry." Cass looked over Neville's next. "I love it! It's positively hilarious –let's hang it on the wall!"

"Aren't they for our desk-tops, ma'am?"

"Well, yeah, but first we can hang 'em up for a bit. I'll call in the other teachers and see if they can pick out whose is whose. Is that a soccer ball, Dean? I like the flames coming off the back."

"Darling?" a voice suddenly inquired. The class went silent and Cass turned around. There was John Tyler, his long hair tied back and his sideburns combed, looking like a gentleman wizard of a century ago. He even had a top hat in his hand. "I hear you're a professor now?" He smiled shyly at his wife, looking a bit like a redheaded and older Neville. Cass put Dean Thomas's drawing down and ran to her husband, kissing him full on the mouth. Several girls sighed in abject jealousy.

"Oh, disgusting," Malfoy mumbled.

"That is the luckiest man on earth," Ron observed.

****************************************************************** 

"And then they were just standing there, staring at each other as if they'd been apart for years instead of –how long's it been? A week?" Professor Snape had asked Hermione how the first class with the American had gone. 

"Newlyweds are like that, or so I hear."

"Professor, there's newlyweds and then there's just plain startling."

"Well, what sort of a kiss was it?"

"Oh, not really the randy kind, just the sort of 'oh, _dearest_, where _have_ you been _all_ my life' kind."

"So not randy, but still some desire?"

"Yeah, the more lingering than fiery kind."

"We sound like a couple of Mills and Boone authors."

"You know what those are, Professor?"

"I once lost a bet with your Head of House. She made me read one aloud to her and most of the female staff."

"How humiliating!"

"Several of them had to excuse themselves. I think my sarcasm coupled with the text came off as funny in the –er, physical scenes."

"Well, that, or it might just have been your voice."

"What do you mean?" Snape looked quizzically at Hermione.

"Well, sir, your voice is very, -er, deep, and well…"

"Are you saying-?" Severus looked honestly surprised. "You think that I have –that sort of voice?"

"Well, some of the girls I know have –er, mentioned it."

"Not Miss Weasley!"

"Oh, professor, Ginny's the worst of them! She and the others make checking guys out a proper sport!"

"Holy hell. It _is_ always the quiet ones." Severus pulled out a chair beside Hermione and sat down, looking slightly shaken. "How about you?"

"Me, sir?"

"Well, yes, what do you think of it?"

"Checking out guys? I don't really think I'm all that interested."

"No, my voice. It is awfully deep and I do make it frightening."

"Well… personally I've never minded it."

"Doesn't scare you?"

"Only when you yell."

"Oh. So you don't really suppose Minerva and them…?"

"No, professor, I think they might've."

"So you do like it?" Severus asked, almost hopefully.

"I just said I thought they might've."

"Oh, not in that way, I just mean, do you like my voice?"

"Rather, yes."

"Oh, good! That makes it all worth it." Hermione looked confused and Severus explained. "When I was quite young I had a speech impediment."

"Doesn't everybody? I had a dreadful lisp."

"Mine made the letter 'r' come out as a 'w'. I used to get teased for it horribly, so I just started whispering everything, and eventually I started to sound like I do now."

"I had a speech teacher in grammar school. She made me say the words 'sheep' and 'sleep' over and over for hours on end until it went away."

"Muggles really aren't as stupid as most wizards like to make out, are they?"

"I've never thought so, but I could be termed biased."

"Actually, I thought some of their inventions in that store you took me to were fascinating." Severus indicated the wall. "I'd like one of those stereoes right over there, so I could play Beethoven while I grade these beastly papers."

"You like Beethoven?" Hermione asked.

"Doesn't everyone? Even the Muggles have heard of him."

"My mother insists that classical music is the finest in the world, but my father seems to think its rock n'roll. Many family battles rage over that question."

"I like some rock n'roll. Do Muggles know about Pink Floyd?"

"One of my father's favorites."

"Sometimes I think I'll dig my old wireless out, just to watch Draco Malfoy throw a fit."

"Most of us Gryffindors don't like him, you know."

__

"Really?" Severus joked sarcastically. "He does get on my nerves sometimes as well. If it isn't holier-than-thou in the Common Room, it's checking his hairline for hours in the prefects' bathroom."

"The great Malfoy family suffers from receding hairlines?" Hermione could hardly restrain giggles.

"Draco thinks so. I do believe that may be the result of a certain Gryffindor female's insinuation, though."

"I wouldn't put it past Lavender or Ginny."

"My money's on Ginny. With her brothers, she knows what men fear most."

"Professor, can you keep a secret?" 

"Of course."

"Well, whenever Malfoy says something nasty to someone, there's this gesture Ginny and the other girls use." Blushing, Hermione showed Severus a wry little flick and wilt of the little finger. The professor looked suitably shocked and also amused by that. "Just so you don't mistake it for a hex sometime."

"I don't think I will. Do they ever use that for me?"

"Lord, no! Ginny and the others –you know what, this potion needs to be stirred."

Looking determinedly away, Hermione stirred the potion. Merlin's balls, what she had almost said…

"You do know, Miss Granger, that you have a nickname in the Serpents' Den?"

"Really?"

"Yes." Severus looked at the potion almost absently, a mischievous look growing on his face. "Care to hear it?"

"I suppose it'll be amusing."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite." Her curiousity was piqued.

"Put the ladle down first." Hermione did, and ever so quietly, Snape whispered in her ear.

__

"Yuck!" She did seem somewhat less than flattered by Goyle's term. "How revolting! I think I'm going to be ill! Ecch!"

"It's better than the nickname they've got for Potter and Weasley."

"No, it isn't!"

"I think 'Potty and the Weasel' is pretty bad."

"Trust me, professor, it isn't!"

"

Well, it doesn't apply since you go your teeth fixed, now, does it?"

"Think, professor! What else can that particular word mean?"

Severus thought for a moment and suddenly went red.

"Merlin's arse!"

"To say the very least!"

"I'm very sorry, Hermione."

"Why? You didn't think of it!" She started to stir the potion again and suddenly reconsidered. "I hope."

"No, I didn't think of anything so –crude."

"It's alright. I can take care of them."

"No nasty hexes in the corridors, I hope?"

"No." Hermione smiled a bit meanly. "I'll just tell Professor Cass."

"And who says you Gryffindor girls don't fight dirty?" Severus was actually amused by that method of revenge. "Cassandra is remarkably bent on annoying the Slytherins."

Hermione's curiosity overcame.

"Is she any relation to you, Professor?"

"Heavens, no, not that I know of." Severus checked the bubbling potion again. "I was just going to ask if she was related to you."

"Well, I saw that you both have dark hair and pale skin and –I sort of thought…"

"I was going by your hair and build."

"Bloody Yanks. They look like everyone."

"See, that's where the bottom falls out of the pure-blood theory, too. Cassandra Tyler could pass for a Snape just as easily as John could for a Weasley. You yourself, with a few elementary glamourie spells or some dark hair dye, could pass for a Catesby or a Zabini. You're too smart for a Goyle, but then, nobody really looks at them closely."

"Is Cass helping you spy against Voldemort, then?"

__

"WHAT?" Snape was suddenly on his feet. He checked the lock on the door and cast an extra Silencing Charm. "How did you know that?"

"I- well, I- back in fourth year, after the Tournament…"

"You've known all this time?"

"Well, yes."

"And you haven't let on at all?"

"Well, no, sir. You're just as much of a git in class."

"Merciful peace!" Snape sank into a chair, looking as if he had narrowly averted a heart attack. "Noone suspects?"

"If I ever defend you, the girls just assume I've got a crush on you. Their minds are in the hormonal gutter nowadays."

"What an amazing thing," Severus mused. "You didn't tell on me."

"Well, of course not! If Malfoy found out and told his father…" Hermione moved over to Snape's chair. "You might be killed."

"I used to think death would be a welcome end." Severus slumped over slightly, and Hermione couldn't help reaching for his shoulders. Softly, he put a hand on top of hers. "Miss Granger, you are the most brilliant student I have ever had."

A hissing noise suddenly interrupted them. Hermione darted back to the potion, removing it from the heat before it could boil over too far. Sensing her professor's ire, she quickly brightened her smile and opened a small jar.

"Splendid! I read something about overheating plus two newts' tails improving the potency…there we go." 

"Where did you read that?" Severus inquired, sitting up sharply. 

"The book you gave me, why?"

"And you remembered it? That was in footnotes, even I didn't read that until…" He crossed the floor to look at the potion, which was the perfect shade of pale violet. "Hermione, you are a genius."

"Er- thanks, Professor."

"You know, you can call me Severus," he pointed out quietly.

"Alright…Severus."

Whether it was the fumes of the potion or just fate's hand, they would never know. Either way, they drifted into a kiss. A thump on the door sounded a moment later and they flew apart. 

"Per'fessor! Open up!"

"It's Hagrid!"

"Come in, man!" Snape hastily undid the locks. "Good lord!"

In his arms, Hagrid held a lean wolfhound, covered in foamy stuff and whimpering.

"She were spyin' on them damn Malfoys, she was," Hagrid explained, hurrying the animal to the utility sink in the corner. "Her tag musta said she were your hound, and Lucius made 'is 'ouse-elves give 'er a flea bath or summat!"

"Merlin's balls! Start rinsing her fur, Hagrid! Hermione, hand me that green vial, top shelf! Go find John Tyler!"

"Is that Cass?" Hermione asked, handing Snape the vial. The wolf whimpered. "Don't worry, professor, I'll go get him!" She touched the wolf's fur in what she hoped was a reassuring way, only to feel the chemicals or whatever the foam was start burning her hand. With a cry, Hermione raced off to find Cass' husband.

************************************************** 

"Mr. Tyler!" Hermione finally spotted the werewolf talking with Madam Pince. 

"Hermione! What's wrong?" The handsome werewolf smiled concernedly.

"It's Cass, she's got flea bath or something all over her!"

John went ashen.

"Where?"

"In the dungeon, Professor Snape's classroom!"

John suddenly ran in the direction Hermione had come, without another word. She soon found herself struggling to catch up. At length she reached the Potions room, where Cass, still a wolf, was being dried and rubbed with something by Hagrid. Snape was trying to pour a potion of some kind down her throat, but judging by Cass's reaction, it must have tasted pretty vile indeed.

"John, here! Help me get her mouth open!"

"Awrrr-rrr," the werewolf howled, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder. The female wolf opened her mouth and managed to get down most of the potion. John swiftly took a blanket and wrapped it around the wolf, hugging her close as she turned back into a human. Red welts criss-crossed her face and arms, as if she had been scrubbed with turpentine. Her hair was lightened in some places from dark to a soft brown, and her eyes were red and teary.

"Hello, there, love," she mumbled, looking at the very least in pain. 

"It's the Hospital Wing for you, darling," John whispered, carrying her closely. "Hagrid, Severus, Hermione…thank you all."

"Wait, John!" Snape seized a few vials from the shelves. "Here. This one reduces irritation, this one's a pain-reliever, and this one will help her sleep." The potions master slipped each vial into a different pocket of John's coat. "Get better soon, Cassandra."

"Yes, Sevvy." 

The Tylers disappeared a second later. Hagrid sighed sentimentally, rubbing his hands with a towel.

"Gaw, but I love watchin' newlyweds."

"Hagrid, whenever did you get back? Dumbledore said you had to leave." Hermione was glad to see her old friend. 

"Actually, 'Er-mione, I never left. Great man, Albus Dumbledore, he's lettin' me domesticate some of th' creatures in th' Forbidden Forest, 'fore You-Know-Who gets to 'em."

"Merlin's beard, look at your hand!" Snape cried. Where Hermione had touched the foamy stuff on Cass, her palm had suddenly sprouted blisters and welts. Snape hurried her to the sink and began to rinse the wounds, gently rubbing something soothing that smelled of mint into them. Hagrid handed him a clean towel, and Severus looked at Hermione's hand closely. "There, now, what do you suppose Sybill Trelawney'd make of that?"

The welts on the palm of her left hand had, weirdly, formed a star.

"Oh, I'm going to get full marks in Astronomy or something."

"We all knew that, though," Hagrid observed.

"I never had much use for Divination," Severus and Hermione remarked in unison. They glanced at each other a second later, with a look almost like affection.

"Whoa," Hagrid suddenly looked slightly uneasy. "You two've been alone together too much this week."

******************************************************* 

A/N: Well, how was that chapter? Took me sodding long enough, eh? In my haste to get new ones out as quickly as possible, though, I have neglected to announce a few vitally important changes in my household. A while ago, we took in two new cats, in the theory that we would find good homes for them. They had belonged to a friend of my brother's, a dear girl of woefully inadequate mental prowess, whose mother wanted to abandon the cats. She assured us that they had 'seen the vet,' which in turn my brother related to my mother as 'had been spayed.' This fudge of truth was to be our downfall.  
Being the emotional tower of jello that she is, Mom bonded with the new cats, who are a mother and daughter pair. We named the mother Lilli Von Schtupp, after a humorous role of the late Madeline Kahn's, and the daughter Belle Watling, because she looks like 'a dyed-haired woman.' They are both very pretty. Lilli has orangey-ginger fur and lynx-pointed ears, and Belle is a calico with white paws and bib. On Christmas morning, my sister unwrapped a jewelry box with tags for Lilli and Belle with our phone number, meaning they will stay with us forever. There were joyful tears from Kylie and generally much rejoicing from all of us.  
Then one fine January morning, I noticed something. Lilli had lately gotten profoundly large about her lower section. She also had lost a great deal of her belly fur, a sign of cat pregnancy. I unearthed an old toy stethoscope and listened to her guts, whereupon I heard not only loud purring, but what sounded like lots of baby kitten hearts. Next, I held her up to my stereo, and sure enough, the kitten heartbeats sped up when I played Doobie Brothers songs. (This practice is known as 'cheap ultrasound.') I called my Auntie Carolyn, who works for a vet, and she came by and confirmed what my mother had been dreading. When Xander's friend said they were spayed, she was _wrong!_ So, if anyone on the East Coast of America wants a nice kitten, already familiar with the nether ships of fanfiction, suitably litter-trained and fond of the Doobie Brothers, do write me an email. Also, if anyone can think of some good kitten names, throw them in your review. As soon as they get born I'll let you-all know.   
-Jan McNeville


	12. When Bunnies Attack

A/N: I got a review protesting a certain prejudice one of my characters holds. It's nothing personal, just an illustration of one of those weird Pittsburgh beliefs, and I actually think Yoko did some really neat things in the recording studio. Even Alan Parsons commented on her skill as a creative force. Pittsburghers don't really like Yoko Ono much, or at least we say we don't because we love to have someone to blame things on and we hate admitting that we're being gits. But we are. So here you go.

Chapter Twelve: When Bunnies Attack

"Twenty-one."

"How the hell are you doing that?" Cass gave Snape her cards and waited for him to deal again. "Don't even ask. I'll hit."

"As simple as it is, I will say, I like this game."

"You're winning. Of course you like it now." The welt-covered American picked up and ate another chocolate-covered nut. "Used to be my favorite 'til I taught you." She made a face.

"Pecan?"

"Yep. I like the almonds best, not those wrinkly nuts."

"Peanuts are good."

"You know they're really beans?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. We had a President once who liked to grow the things."

"I remember that. Didn't a rabbit chase him once?"

"While he was swimming, yeah."

"Some good that Muggle army is. Can't even protect world leaders from bunnies."

"Hey, bunny rabbits are dangerous! Didn't you see 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail'?"

"Actually, yes. I enjoyed it immensely, too." Snape's face was perfectly straight.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to laugh."

"It might," he contradicted jokingly.

"What if rabbits were to attack France?" Cass asked a moment later, trying to crack him up.

"It would be a boon to the fashion industry and those anti-fur hippies would throw a fit."

"My father used to have a PETA bumper sticker."

"What's that?"

"Goes on the back of your car. His was **P**eople for the** Eating of **T**asty **A**nimals, though. Got it as a joke present from some other professor."**

"What exactly does your father teach, Cassandra?"

"English, but he sometimes does enders in History."

"Enders?"

"Weekend courses. Kind of an extra-money job. He taught the English Civil War to buy me my first two-wheeler."

"How old were you?"

"Five."

"Oh, you mean a _bicycle."_

"Smutty Brits," Cass observed. "If it isn't men in plaid pants asking John if they can bum a fag, it's large-breasted and scantily clothed women in Hogsmeade inviting me to come knock them up."

And Snape finally laughed.

"Does the sound of laughter assail my ears?" Professor Trelawney inquired, floating into the Hospital Wing with a more than usually melancholy look. "I fear the frivolity of everyday mirth clouds my Inner Eye."

"Have you tried some drops for it?" Cass asked. 

"I came to speak to Professor Snape, actually," Trelawney remarked crisply. It was plain she resented Cass. "I find myself again in need of a certain nostrum which only he can provide."

"I'll have Dobby run it up to your room later, Sibyll."

"My thanks, Severus," Trelawney purred. "If you would care to deliver it personally, I believe I could –er, read your palm later."

"I'm afraid I have my sixth-year project today."

"A pity." The glittering woman patted Snape on the shoulder. "I must away to the Orb –the Sight beckons." She fluttered out.

"Holy shit, Sevvy, she just hit on you!"

"It happens at this time of the month."

"Oh, gross!"

"Calm down, Cassandra. Sibyll suffers from allergies, for which reason she secludes herself. The potion that controls her symptoms always clouds her judgement."

"Makes her randy as a stoat, you mean."

"You could say that."

"If she's got allergies, why all the incense?"

"It's to keep pollen out of her tower."

"Sure." Cass snorted. "I bet it's to sedate all the Gryffie boys."

"Why not the Slytherins?"

"Because the blond one's the only one _worth_ shagging and until he removes his head from his ass he won't be suitable."

"You are biased."

"And you wear too much black. Blue would suit your coloring just as well."

Hermione stepped into the room, looking more than a little shy after the previous night's events. "What do you think, 'Mione? Blue for Sev?"

"I don't know..." Hermione looked at her potions teacher almost hopefully. "I think he looks okay in black."

"Yeah, but don't you think a little color might brighten things up?"Cass gestured at Snape and suddenly seemed to realize something. "Say, do you two think you could find a certain book for me at Flourish and Blotts?"

"Which one?" Snape asked.

"_'The Unabridged History of American Muggles'_...I need the wizarding point of view."

"I can get it for you, Cassandra," Snape replied.

"But I need 'Mione to find me –something else."

"I can find whatever you want, Cass-"

"Not this. It's a female –I mean a Muggle thing."

"Oh. Shall we go right now, then?" Hermione asked.

"Why not?" Snape asked rhetorically. "We'll talk Potions on the way. I'll run get a broom while you and Cassandra figure out what it is you need to get." With a wry sort of almost-smile, Snape left. Hermione looked at Cass the way she sometimes looked at Harry and Ron when they had screwed something up royally. 

_"You..."_

"What? I can't find any Tampax here."

"You deliberately planned that!"

"Planned _what?"_

"You're sending Severus and I out together alone!"

"Aww, 'Mione, you call him Severus..." Cass teased. "Why can't you just thank me for being a goddess and go borrow a frisky little miniskirt from Ginny?"

_"Miniskirt?"_ Ron asked, appearing at the door in horror. _"Ginny_ owns a miniskirt?"

"Several, actually, including a leather one," his sister clarified.

"Mum's going to kill you!" the outraged brother cried.

"Nope. She taught me how to transfigure them in the first place, Ron."

"Speaking of, can you work your magic on Hermione?" Cass asked. Ginny cracked her knuckles and took aim.

"Smoldering temptress?" she inquired hopefully.

"Ginny! Put that wand away!" Ron barked. "Where is she going that you want her tarted up?"

"Ron, I'm a professor. Don't mess with me."

"She's making me go to Diagon Alley with Professor Snape."

"But professor Cass!" Ron protested. "And here I was going to convince you to run away with me! What do you have to go and do that for?"

"I need some personal items, Ron. _Girl stuff."_

Ron abruptly went ashen and put the flowers down on Cass's night table.

"Don't enlighten me. I'll be back later." With that, he was gone.

"How convenient men's great fear of tampons is," Ginny soliloquized. "So, do you think the snakeskin one'd be appropriate?"

"Ginny! This is not a date with my crush!" Hermione protested.

"I can do it in Slytherin green and make you a top to match."

There was a pause and then Hermione smiled mischievously.

"Do it."

"Smoldering temptress rides again!" Cass exulted. "I _am_ a goddess, setting you two up."

"He's my teacher!" Hermione reminded her. "And you had nothing to do with the kiss last night."

"Of course I had _–what?"_ Cass's and Ginny's eyes lit up. "You _kissed_ him?"

"About fucking time, in my opinion," Ginny remarked. The other girls looked at her. "What? You've been dreaming about the git since you started your project."

"But he's my teacher!" Hermione did seem to be in the midst of great internal upheaval. "It's like, morally wrong to be liking him!"

"Oh, no, it's not," Ginny responded airily. "Dad was Muggle Studies teacher when Mum was in seventh year. He's exactly four years older."

"Why does that explain so much," Cass mumbled.

"How much older is Severus than me?"

"Aww, you keep calling him Severus..."

"Must you?" Hermione's patience with her friends was wearing thin. "He'll be back any second and _–holy shit, Ginny!"_

"I think you look nice in it."

"Hey, I suggested a miniskirt," Cass complained.

"I look like Salazar Slytherin's pet!" Hermione was clad in snakeskin pants that were, well, skin-tight, as well as a halter top in the same material. 

"No, 'Mione, you look like _Sevvy's_ pet." Cass was really having a time of it. "Maybe sometime later on, he will."

"Miss Granger?" Snape called suddenly, appearing at the threshold of the door. He was wearing a Muggle suit for travel, naturally in black. "Oh, dear, I seem to be underdressed." A wave of his wand turned the suit to black leather and every female's knees to goo. He picked up the broom and offered Hermione his arm. "Shall we?"

They flew out the window a few moments later. Ginny and Cass opened bottles of butterbeer. A second later, they raised them high.

"To leather pants!"

***************************************************************** 


	13. Speaking Metaphorically

A/N: And now for another chapter. The kittens haven't arrived yet, but Kylie (my sister) thinks there will be six. Here you go.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

(just kidding!)

Chapter 13: Speaking Metaphorically

"Professor, aren't those clothes uncomfortable? You didn't have to change to what I was wearing."

"But aren't you astonished I could?"

"Well, admittedly, yes. Those are leather pants, and it just doesn't seem like you."

"Don't they? I used to wear all kinds of crazy fashions when I was younger, before I taught, I mean. Albus insists the memory still gives him nightmares." Snape thought for a moment. "And actually, it isn't like me to just transfigure things on the spot. Cassandra's face was worth it, even if Miss Weasley did seem to be staring at my crotch."

"She was not!"

"Evidently, you weren't, either." Snape maneuvered oddly on the broom, making a sudden ripping sound. "My zipper'd been down for quite awhile. You could have told me before we got this high. It's sodding cold! As soon as we land, we're changing to warmer things that aren't made of dead animals."

"You don't like fur?"

"No, I like fur a lot. You're wearing snakeskin. I had a pet snake once."

"I have a pet cat who's got lots of fur!"

"Don't tell me you have more than one soapbox? The Slytherins laughed over S.P.E.W. for quite awhile."

"I've been promoting house-elf literacy lately."

"Handing out cookbooks?"

"However did you guess?"

"Dobby brought me Chinese food the other night."

"How'd he do?"

"Can't you give him a Szechuan cookbook? I don't care for Cantonese as much."

"You're pickier than Crookshanks."

"At least the little crying one –what's her name?"

"Winky?"

"Yes, her –she's quit sobbing in favor of committing that Hershey's book to memory. If I find one more chocolate chip cookie on my night table, I'm going to start leaving tips for her!"

"You don't like chocolate chip?"

"I love it. I'm just bloody sick of it. Now oatmeal butterscotch cookies, even if they are a Muggle invention, now those are marvelous."

"I like oatmeal raisin, too."

"What's the point of that? Raisins aren't for cookies, they're too healthy. Chocolate is for cookies, leave raisins for bran muffins. It's like putting candied cherries into bagels and poppy seeds into fruitcake...it's just _wrong!"_

Hermione was still stifling giggles even as they landed.

********************************************************************** 

_"I remember days full of restlessness and fury  
I remember nights that were drunk on dreams  
I remember someone who hungered for the glory  
I remember her, but it seems she's gone..."_

Why was she turning away from him? The dream had been both of theirs, and since the Master's second rise, Narcissa seemed so much less than interested. Was it because they had a child now? Draco had been born shortly after the Dark Lord's fall, but motherhood certainly didn't slow down the other wives. Why, just the other night Millie Parkinson had...nevermind her anyway. Lucius wanted only to think of distant Narcissa, so beautiful, so brilliant...

_"Where's the girl?  
Where's the girl with that blaze in her eyes?  
Where's the girl with the gaze of surprise?  
Now and then I still dream she's beside me..."_

She hadn't gone to a Dark Revel in years. She also had a bedroom of her own, which had once been just for when Lucius was away, but now which she slept in alone every night. It seemed months since she had even looked at him.

_"And I know she remembers how fearless it feels  
To take off with the wind at her heels  
She and I took this world like a storm!"_

What would it take to tear her away from writing and whatever it was she did all day? Lucius tried to think. A holiday of some kind? The Dark Lord needed something done in France lately, and who would object to his and Narcissa's spending some time where they had honeymooned? The old chateau, where they had spent so many nights...

_"Come again!  
Let the girl in your heart tumble free  
Bring your renegade heart home to me  
In the dark of the morning I'll warm you  
I'll rouse you..."_

"Cissy?"

"Oh, what is it _now_, Lucius? I've just finished the most _lovely_ scene –pity you haven't read Chekhov or it'd be _quite_ funny –would you ring for Debby? I need a bath; I positively _reek_ of literature –and _ink_. _Look_ at my fingers. _Bloody_ quills! Do you suppose a Muggle typewriter would be _ridiculous?_ I've been thinking about a new story..."

"Talk to you later," Lucius sighed, shutting the boudoir door. Narcissa sighed herself -with relief, and sent the note she had been writing off by owl to Dumbledore. She knew she was betraying the man she loved for the greater good. Sometimes it burned her soul like one of Severus' potions burned her tongue.

_"Am I dreaming, or is she beside me now?"_

*********************************************************************** 

Professor Snape landed the broom near Hagrid's cabin and helped Hermione off. It was long past dark and they had simply eaten dinner in Muggle London. She had introduced him to a glorious crunchy food called 'crisps' and he had shown her a particularly interesting trick on the broom he had learned in his Quidditch days. She didn't fly very well and had been slightly frightened, but then when he put his arms around her it was all alright –even wonderful. 

"I had a great time, Hermione."

"I did as well, Severus."

"How will I get used to calling you 'Miss Granger' again in time for class?"

"It would be worse for me to call you 'Severus'!" she joked.

"Or if I said 'yes, dear?' when you raised your hand!"

"Or if I answered a question and called you 'darling'!"

"This must be the best way to fall in love, the way third years do," Severus observed, unaware of what he had just said. "A few stolen kisses, long talks over the cauldron and plenty of Mandrake juice...you've gone ashen! Are you alright?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine. You were saying-?"

"Just that this is the best way to –oh." Severus looked just as surprised as Hermione did. "I don't suppose...you don't think-?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted. Suddenly Severus leaned over and kissed her properly.

"I've always sort of wanted to hear _you_ say that," he explained.

After an elaborately faked curt 'Good _night,_ Miss Granger,' at the foot of the stairs, Severus took the secret back flight up and met his student near the Fat Lady. He whistled a snatch of a Beatles song, and sure enough, she went around the corner and found him.

"Severus? Is that you?"

"Did I get your attention?"

_"Yes!"_ She gave him a gentle hug and patted him on the cheek. "In the future, though, don't whistle 'Lady Madonna' to make me notice you."

"Good night, dear."

"Good night, darling."

A second later, Hermione walked back around the corner and was surprised to see a giggling Cass and a profoundly shocked Ginny. "So, Mrs. Levi, I see the welts are better?"

"Crookshanks left you a dish of milk," Cass retorted, still looking just a little too mirthful. "No need to get catty. I think you may have just brain-damaged Ginny here."

************************************************************************* 

"So what did you _do?"_

"We bought books and went to the library-"

"Oh, naturally!"

"And we had dinner and we flew home and here I am."

"That's _all?"_

"Oh, yes, we did get some Muggle ice-cream afterwards. Would you believe he's never seen sprinkles that don't move?"

"Oh, _how_ disappointing!" Ginny looked perturbed. "All that shock value and you haven't even shagged the guy!"

"Don't be a smutbunny, Gins, it's only their first date." Cass spoke with the wisdom of a higher grade, if not exactly a professor. "Shagging is a very serious thing, unless of course you're doing it for sport."

"Sport?"

"Yes. Such as seducing your way through a private school...a rectory's sort of a protected species, we aren't supposed to go poaching those."

"Are you comparing Severus to a monk?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Good lord, no. I thought you of all people would find that comparison ridiculous." Cass cracked open a soda and took a long slug of it. "My metaphors are a little mad, but I think you'll get them all eventually."

"Did you ever really sleep around?" Ginny asked. "I'm sorry, but it just sounds sort of fascinating."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Gins. John's the only dish I've tasted, and he doesn't need any salt."

"Okay, _that_ metaphor-"

"Was disgusting, yes. I think I've sort of run out of tasteful ones by this late at night."

"Wouldn't your teeth –er, when you do that?" Ginny asked.

"Considering trying out Harry's wand, are you?" Cass inquired. "Wasn't that an awful one? Hermione, have you still got the book?"

"Which book?" Lavender asked, opening the door of the girls' dorm. "Oh, professor! I didn't expect to see you here."

"No matter, Lavender, I'm only holding court. The _book_, Hermione. You know, the one I co-wrote."

"Oh. Smut Goes To Rome."

"That isn't what _I_ named it...good title though. Want to help me write a sequel and we'll call it that?"

"What is the book about?" Lavender asked. After just one of Professor Tyler's classes, Divination was starting to look a little dull. 

"Sex and stuff," Cass replied demurely. "John did the pictures and I wrote and took dictation."

"Is he –oh, your husband."

"Yes, the dishy redhaired one."

"Wow. He's hot. If you die, can I marry him?" Lavender suffered from terminal bluntness sometimes.

"Sure, as long as you don't kill me," Cass replied. "Ginny had a question."

Ginny went appropriately scarlet.

"I've got a few, myself," Hermione added, so as to spare her friend.

"Me, too!" chipped in Lavender. "Hey, Parvati! Ginny and Professor Tyler are here!"

"When the Slythies aren't around, you can call me Cass," the American announced. "Let's get Dobby to bring up some more munchies, and I've got plenty of soda. _Accio!"_

A twelve-box of soda flew into the room and promptly fell apart. Cans rolled everywhere. 

"Here, just open 'em like this. They're delicious Muggle drinks." The wizard-born girls took Hermione at her word and were soon tittering like gits about bubbles tickling their noses and asking whether there was any alcohol, except for Ginny, who was absorbed in a particularly engrossing paragraph of Cass's book.

"So that's what that word means! I'm going to kill Malfoy!"

"Which word?" Ginny told Cass. "Oh, no, Gins, leave it all to me. I've got the loveliest new idea for a prank on that little prick..."

************************************************************************* 

A/N: Reviews for the plot kittens? Actually, I think my pet bunny does the plot, and the kitties do the humor. Considering I have one bunny and eight cats, that sort of explains a bit. I got the nastiest, most peppery email from somebody claiming that I was too preoccupied with being funny to write a really meaningful story. Who, me? I don't _try_ to be funny, it just...sort of happens. My parents are actors, for Merlin's sake, what do you expect? Either way, a review or two's always nice.

-J.McN.


	14. Dancing in the Dark

A/N: Lilli still hasn't had her kittens yet, but she looks like she's ready to pop. I haven't been this nervous since my cousin was born. Here you go.

Chapter Fourteen: Dancing in the Dark

"Okay, that was weird."

"What? I'm serious."

"I think I need to meet your brothers, Gin." Cass had finally been able to speak after suffering a laughing fit when Ginny told the story of Fred and George's European Bathing Suits, which had transformed from long, Gryffindor-colored trunks to tight gold lamè Speedoes whenever Harry and Ron got them wet. They had refused to let Ginny try the stylish female model, but had encouraged Hermione wholeheartedly. She had sensibly decided to wear her own, and Percy was scandalized when Penelope Clearwater's long-line one-piece Catalina suit transformed into a string bikini before his eyes. "By the way, do you think they could make me a blue one?"

"You want to wear that kind of thing?"

"Why not? I think it could be quite shocking."

"Okay, is the point really to shock the guy?" Hermione asked.

"Not really, just kind of an added perk. They look so cute when they're scandalized."

"Ginny-?"

"Hermione, no! You can't do it! No!" Ginny protested jokingly.

"Really, Hermione? Who are you seeing?" Lavender asked. Cass stepped in at that point.

"Oh, he's not a student."

"A Muggle guy?" Parvati looked seriously impressed. "Hail to the goddess!"

"You go, girl," Lavender added.

"You don't think dating a Muggle guy is strange?" Cass asked. 

"Are you mad? Muggle guys are hot! Look at this!" Lavender pulled out a dog-eared Muggle teen magazine and indicated a picture of Sean Biggerstaff. "He's a golden god!"

"Lemme see that," Cass asked. She scrutinized the picture carefully. "Well, he's cute enough. It's the voice that really turns me on."

"Figures. I haven't heard your husband say more than two sentences at a time." Ginny looked at the magazine but was unimpressed. "I've got cuter _brothers_ than him."

"Well, it's not like it's his first language," Cass defended.

"It isn't? What does he speak?"

"Wolfish."

"Wolfish?" Hermione asked confusedly.

"The language of wolves."

"Er..."

"My husband is a werewolf and he was born that way. He and his family spoke Wolfish most of the time, and he learned people-talk when he was about six."

"Can you speak it?"

"Naturally. John's been helping me a lot."

"Say something in it," Parvati challenged. Cass seemed to stare at her for a few seconds, and then she scratched her ear. "Well?"

"I just called Professor Snape a git." The girls looked at her in amazement. "It's rather a subtle language."

"God, you're so _fun,"_ Lavender remarked. "Professor McGonagall never has sleepovers. Is it because Americans are fun?"

"Naw. It's probably 'cause I'm closer to your age. When Professor McGonagall wants to be, she is a party freak."

"Exactly how old are you?"

"With or without the Time-Turner?"

"You had a Time-Turner?" Hermione was amazed. "Those things are dangerous."

"Tell me about it," Cass remarked. "I went from sixteen to twenty-four in two years."

"How?" Hermione was shocked. Maybe this was why Cass looked so terribly sick.

"Well, have you ever done the math for how much you sleep? By the time you're sixteen, you've been asleep for almost six years. I just went back every time I slept, got extra time whenever I wanted to keep working, and sometimes I went back so I could talk to myself."

"Isn't that terribly illegal?"

"Not if you make the Time-Turner yourself." Cass pulled out a necklace from under her robes. It was considerably less neat and polished than Hermione's, and it had less sand. "Took me quite awhile to make it work. Does forty-five minutes at a shot."

"Wow! A zip gun Time-Turner!" Ginny was sarcastic, but impressed. "Now we can blackmail you!"

"No, y'can't." Cass pulled out a silver object on the same chain. It looked remarkably like a badge.

"You're an Auror?" Hermione was shocked. 

"Ohmigod! Are you going to arrest Snape?" Lavender asked.

"Being a sexy man-bitch isn't a crime." Cass tucked her badge in and took out her wand. "John would be in Azkaban otherwise."

"What are you here for?" Ginny asked. 

"To watch you and your boyfriend's asses, natur'lly." Cass cracked her knuckles and twirled her wand. "I'm also going to save the souls of the Slytherins with the vast healing power of rock n' roll."

"You're not serious," Lavender gasped.

"Oh, honey, you have _no_ idea. _Obliviate!"_ Cass quite coolly wiped the memories of the class gossips, leaving Hermione and Ginny ever so slightly terrified. She then gave them a cheeky wink, as if to say 'I can trust you two.'

"So, what were we talking about?" Parvati asked. 

"Sean Biggerstaff," Cass supplied.

"Oh, he has a _sexy_ voice," Lavender observed.

************************************************************************ 

"Severus?" Hermione asked, knocking on the walls of the Potions room. She was having trouble remembering where the opening to his rooms was. "Severus, please be awake, come on!"

"Miss Granger?" Hermione spun about. Snape was in the doorway. He closed, locked and warded the door before coming closer to her. "Hermione, what's wrong?"

"Cass! She's an Auror! She thinks you're really working for Voldemort!" Hermione hugged him close and struggled not to burst into tears. 

"Oh, sweetheart, no. I know Cass is an Auror...she works with me." Severus pulled her close and stroked her hair. "How did you find out?"

"She told Ginny and I tonight. We were having a sleepover...and she Obliviated Lavender and Parvati, just shot 'em with it, no warning or anything. It was so_ scary,_ she was just like a Dark wizard!"

"Hermione, it's a _good_ thing Cass can curse that way. Aurors have to be able to." Severus thought for a second and then something occurred to him. "You weren't ready for this at all, were you?"

"Ready for what?"

"This war. You thought Cass Tyler was just an eccentric American, one of the steady stream of new teachers, and it turns out she's here almost exclusively to keep you from getting killed. Even I'd find that a nasty shock."

"It's just...if there are Aurors here, it must be so much worse than I expected. My parents were safe, and I guess I just assumed the Death Eaters weren't that adept if we could all be missed that way."

"Darling, the attack on your house was a glorified warning shot." Severus opened the wall to his chambers and led her to a soft chair, sitting opposite from her. "That was just to scare you. I hate to put it this way, but destroying a house is the Death Eater equivalent of an unkind letter."

Hermione suddenly began to giggle.

"I'd hate to see what a Howler'd be like. My parents killed, Harry kidnapped, Ginny raped..." Hermione giggled on until Snape finally smacked her with the back of his hand, and then she stared at him in mute shock, tears racing down her cheeks.

"Have you been reading?" Severus asked.

"You know me," she sobbed.

"Gods, you'd think Pince would keep the Prophet archives away from you," Severus pulled her close to him, lifting her onto his lap on a couch between the two fat chairs. "There are some things children shouldn't know, especially when they might happen to them." 

"I'm not a child," Hermione said defiantly a moment later. "They can't scare me any more."

"Don't give up on innocence, m'love. You never want it until it's gone." Suddenly Severus winced and held his forearm tightly. Hermione gently took his left hand in hers and pushed up his sleeve. The Dark Mark was burning black. 

"He's calling you, isn't he?"

"Yes." Severus kissed her softly. "I have to go."

"May I stay here and wait for you?"

"I don't know, I'm usually sort of unlikeable after a Dark Revel..." Severus sighed and smiled. "Of course, darling. But you have classes tomorrow, why don't you get some sleep?" He gestured to a more than usually large four-poster with what looked like a black crushed velvet comforter. "I'll take the couch here when I get back."

"Naw...why don't I take the couch?"

"The couch is wretchedly uncomfortable."

"Then you can't sleep on it after a what-is-it."

"Well, you shouldn't-"

"Why don't you just sleep in the bed _with_ me when you get back?" 

Severus looked as though he had been electrocuted.

"Er..._what?"_

Hermione was struggling not to laugh.

"Oh, gods...I see what Cass meant about shocking guys. You really do look cute."

"Did she tell you to proposition me?"

"I wasn't propositioning you..."

"Oh, good. Because that would be...not that I don't want to be propositioned by you or anything, it's just that I think we could let that wait...maybe a year or so?"

"I'm not into leaping into bed at the first moment."

"Neither am I. And I wouldn't expect you to be the type."

"Why, Professor! Are you _slighting_ the seductive nature of Gryffindors?" Hermione asked jokingly. "I have skills you've never _dreamed_ about."

"Are you slighting the dreaming nature of Slytherins?" Severus kissed her on the cheek. "I'll think of you while I'm gone, keep me from going insane while I grovel."

"I can't see you groveling."

"No, you can't. You're not allowed to go along. I'd better go before I get bodily pulled to the Riddle house."

"Voldemort can pull you in ...like a fish?"

"Regrettably. He has some kind of intensified wand for it, sort of like your Muggle broadcasting towers." 

"This is going to sound rather childish, but I'd love to smack that son-of-a-bitch well into next week."

"Hermione, do me a favor."

"Anything."

"Avoid picking up the Americans' metaphors. I heard Cassandra call John a tiger the other day."

"Where?"

"I think they were in a broom closet."

"Severus, dear, don't follow them unless you have to."

"Why? And what potion are you really making for Cassandra?"

"Promise you won't let on you know?" Severus nodded. "Fertility. Her pH is completely out of whack. I'm fairly sure it's because of all her time-altering."

"You may want to read 'The Modern Lycanthrope,' there on my night-table. Sometimes pH alters after a werewolf bite. That may be the problem." Hermione picked up the book.

"R.J. Lupin? I didn't know he wrote books!"

"Oh, he's brilliant. I like him the most of all James Potter's annoying Gryffindors." Snape winced again and Hermione kissed him.

"You'd better go."

"Sleep while I'm gone?"

"Alright. Join me when you get back?"

"Alright. Goodbye, darling."

"Be careful, Severus."

One last kiss and he was gone. 

Hermione quickly found that she could neither rest nor read. After pacing a worn bit of carpet that she assumed was Severus' own personal pacing place, she finally perched on the bed to wait. As the hours passed and she grew more nervous, she drifted slowly into a nightmarish sleep.

*************************************************************************** 

"Severusss?"

"I am here, my Lord."

"And why did it take you sso long?" Voldemort's sibilant voice inquired.

"I had a slight problem ...a Gryffindor out of bed after curfew."

"How sstupid they are," the Dark wizard hissed. "They susspect nothing of what iss to come to them."

"I assure you, my Lord, their nightmares are all they have to warn them."

"Ah. And what iss thiss I hear of an American?"

"Oh, a pathetic female. Can hardly use a wand."

"Another Defenssse Againssst the Dark Artsss?"

"Worse. American Muggle Studies."

"How uselesss." Voldemort looked suddenly at Snape with hideous red eyes. "Either make her loyal to you or kill her. You know what to do."

"My Lord-?"

"Don't protesssst, Severusss. You're lucky to have such a sssimple asssignment after lasst year. Alsso, I want a Mudblood."

"A Mudblood?"

"Yess," Voldemort licked his lips with a tongue that honestly looked forked. "Luciuss has told me of a girl who offendss his sson...I want her brought to the Dark before the year is out."

"But my Lord! She's a Mudblood...and worse, a Gryffindor!"

"Then you should enjoy breaking her heart and her ssspirit. You may depart, Severuss, before that old fool noticess you're gone." 

"Thank you, my Lord. Consider it done."

With a heavy, strongly disgusted heart, Severus disapparated to the gates of Hogwarts and walked slowly to his dungeon rooms. He could tell her to leave him now, or he could risk having to hurt her beyond repair. But he couldn't do it now. She was asleep, twitching and occasionally mumbling incoherent words. Gently, he brushed the wild hair out of her face and kissed her forehead. He would stay up tonight, trying to decide.

************************************************************************** 

"Darling, you're scandalous. The young Slytherins speak of noone else." John kissed Cass and gave her ear a friendly nip.

"Been spying, love?" she asked.

"It's practically too easy. They all use Dictoquills to write home and nobody wards their door after locking it. Not to mention their passwords are a joke. Severus hasn't even had to tell me one."

"Aren't they such a lot of pricks?"

"Well, the males are. The females I feel really sorry for. How can they put up with those little shitheads is beyond me."

"Is that how you say 'shithead'? I thought that was 'git'."

"For 'git' you extend your paw –hand a bit further toward your ear."

"Oh. I still think my accent's off."

"Well, darling, you have fingers. Wolfish is properly done with paws." John spoke and used Wolfish simultaneously to practice. "By the way, I've brought you some bad news. One of the Slytherin girls is getting beaten up –or was, and we have to make sure he doesn't sneak into the school and hurt her."

"I'll make myself her shadow. What's her name?"

"Blaise Zabini...I was actually sort of thinking she and Hermione could be friends."

"How clever. I suppose I can slaughter a sacred ram to accomplish that?"

"What do you mean? They're both girls."

"Yeah, just from opposite Houses! Hermione's okay, but your Blaise is a Slytherin. She'll probably try to off her or something!"

"For god's sake, Cass, quit reading 'The Godfather.' Blaise needs a friend. She and Maria Catesby are maybe the two sane ones left."

"Then why can't they be each other's friends?"

"Because Maria is almost as badly off as Blaise. I was thinking Ginny for her."

"John, dear?"

"Yes, Cassie m'love?"

"Women don't make friends that easily."

"As Oscar Wilde said, 'I imagine they'll be calling each other sister within the hour.'"

"As Oscar Wilde _also_ said, 'Women only call each other sister _after_ they've called each other a lot of other things.' Frankly, I don't want to see two females duking it out in the halls, and I think you're just a little fetishy to risk that."

"Oh, ye of little faith. I have a loophole."

"A loophole?"

"Yes. Both Blaise and Hermione are freakish bookworms. I'll just lock 'em in the library."

"That's not a loophole, that's a plan!"

"Sorry, wrong word. I have a plan."

"And it's a good one. But I have a plan also."

"What is it?"

"I'll take you to this fascinating room I found in the dungeons, take your clothes off, and bang your wolfy brains out."

"Was I bad?" John asked. "What will you bang them with?"

"Darling, 'bang' is a metaphor."

"Oh. I was just gonna say, why would you...oh, my." 

"So, is that a good plan, you think?"

"I think it is a remarkable plan. Can we get some dinner first?"

"Sure. I told Dobby we'd be wanting some food, so we'll drop by the kitchens on the way."

"Fruitcake for dessert?"

"Yep."

"I love you, Cass. You know me too well.

************************************************************************ 

"Alright, explain." Ginny and Hermione had cornered Cass.

"What?"

"How are you here? Who sent Aurors into Hogwarts?"

"Dumbledore sent for me."

"All right. If you're supposed to be sixteen, how are you an Auror at all?"

"See, the thing is," Cass explained, "I'm not as old chronologically as I am legally."

"Me neither. I added around fourteen months with a Time-Turner," Hermione pointed out, but Ginny looked unimpressed. Fourteen months and eight years were very different.

"Well...in years I _should_ be a couple months _younger_ than you."

That was certainly a shock to the British girls.

"But...but you're an Auror! You're-"

"Married? Yes, Father threw a fit when I said I wanted to marry John."

"Did you have to elope?" Ginny asked. 

"No. John dressed up in a Muggle suit and tie and very eloquently asked him for my hand. I felt it was a little antifeministic of him, but Father appreciated it. Then John went into Father's study and either argued, debated or just talked him into giving us his blessing. I was amazed, to say the very least."

"So'm I. He never seems to talk at all," Ginny agreed. "I guess he talks in Wolfish a lot when you two are alone."

"Absolutely. Why just last night..."

***************************************************************** 

A/N: Still no kittens. Maybe I should go check her stomach now.


	15. Drag Racing

A/N: Sorry it's been so long. I took Lilli to the vet and it turns out she's not pregnant at all, just allergic to fish and suffering from cat-bloat. I've had to feed her specially and keep her in my room, and considering she won't use a litter box, I've been pretty busy. Here you go.

Chapter Fifteen: Drag Racing

"Why, Lucy Malfoy!" 

Harry, Ron and Hermione all straightened in their chairs. Ron, who was facing the door, looked at the newcomer in surprise. Lucius Malfoy had indeed entered, and so had a bearded, longhaired man wearing a fedora and pinstriped robes. "Lucy, you dumb bastard!"

The blond man spun around.

"Are you addressing I?" His tone seemed to drip with spite.

"Unabashed hatred of Muggleborns, carte blanche for your pricky little son to hurt other kids, not to mention all those suspicious sales to Borgin and Burkes' lately..." The bearded man grinned and thumped Lucius on the shoulders like a Mafiosi. His accent seemed taken directly from pulp gangster movies and judging by Lucius' reaction, this fellow was clearly not someone he wanted to talk to.

"Tyler, eh? Married to the Yank Mudblood Albus has teaching?"

"My name's Flynn, you prejudiced cocksucker, and if you don't want your son kidnapped to Chicago and deprogrammed, you'll stay the hell out of Hogsmeade." Flynn gave Malfoy another shove. 

"You arrogant little American-" Lucius spat, clearly about to draw his wand. "How dare you-"

"How dare I? There's six reporters in here, all on my payroll and all American. Do you want every wizard in Britain to know you're a Death Eater?"

Lucius pulled his wand on Flynn, his eyes almost glowing with rage. Just as suddenly, almost every one of the Three Broomsticks' patrons burst into laughter. In Lucius' hand was a bright yellow banana, still with a blue Chiquita sticker on it. Flynn grinned.

"Out, damned spot!" Flynn kicked Malfoy quickly and sharply, and just as the aristocrat doubled over, the American hauled him out by the collar of his robes. Considering Flynn was at least a head shorter than Lucius, the gangster had to be very strong. There was a silence as Flynn walked back in with a slight swagger, and then it was shattered by thunderous applause.

"Drinks on me!" Flynn announced, shaking hands with everyone who offered. Hagrid pumped the short gangster's arm up and down, almost lifting him off his feet, and Ron handed Flynn a big mug of butterbeer. Solemnly, the American raised it. "To Albus Dumbledore! Long live the force of right!"

"Albus Dumbledore!" the entire pub chorused. Hagrid thumped Flynn on the back and offered him a chair with the three sixth-year Gryffindors. 

"So, what are yeh doin' in Hogsmeade, Mr-?"

"Flynn. Billy Flynn. You must be Rubeus Hagrid. I read 'bout your Blast-Ended Skrewts a couple years ago."

"Aw, tha' wasn' quite as bad as-" Hagrid stammered.

"Not Rita Skeeter, I never read her trash. It was in a journal of magical veterinary advances –did you know the American military wants to test skrewts as defense creatures? Hello, I'm Billy Flynn." The gangster put his hand out to Hermione, kissing hers almost unnervingly. 

"I'm Hermione Granger and this is Harry Potter and Ron Weasley."

"Oh, I _did_ read what Skeeter wrote about _you_...judging from that I bet you're the Hogwarts convent girl. Weasley...aren't you in _School Quidditch_ for February?" Flynn pulled a rather crumply magazine article from his pocket and showed it to Ron. Sure enough, he was a centerfold. "'Bill and Charles' best points on one broom, Ronald promises to shine up the Gryffindor Quidditch team.' I think that sounds kinda good."

Ron's eyes were starting from his head as he looked over the article. He kept giving the American shocked looks, even as Flynn started talking dragons with Hagrid.

"Those Concord Grapes in Massachusetts, they've just about domesticated 'em. Gorgeous beasts, blue fire and purple skin."

"Naw! Yeh can pet 'em?"

"You can _ride_ 'em if you aren't too scared of heights. Weasley and Potter here could handle it."

"Domesticated dragons?" Hermione asked skeptically. "How did they do it?"

"Muggle-born scientists and genetic splicing stuff," Flynn explained idly. "I don't know all the technical crud, but it seems to be working. You guys seen Severus Snape lately?"

"Professor Snape?" Ron asked, finally coming out of his reverie. "We had his class just the other day, and saw him at breakfast, too."

"Damn potioner. I need a word with him." Flynn put his fedora back on, covering the gray-streaked dark ponytail. "Well, I'll see you lot later."

"Wait, you forgot your-" Ron held out the article.

"Keep it, I've got it memorized. Just give me an autograph later on." Flynn gave Ron's shoulder a friendly punch and shook Harry's hand. "I'll dance with you at the Valentine's Ball, maybe," he promised Hermione with a wink. "Can't have too many cute convent girls."

With the same weird swagger, Billy Flynn left the Three Broomsticks. Hermione had long since gone scarlet.

"I don't _believe_ him," Harry observed. "Was it just me or did he just hit on you?"

"Brass balls if ever _I_ saw 'em," Ron remarked, folding the article carefully as if meaning to send it to his mum. "Fancy throwing Lucius Malfoy out by the scruff like that! Won't Ferret-boy shit a brick!"

"I've heard that name before, Billy Flynn," Hermione mused. "I wonder what his deal is."

"Are you going to the library _now_, or will you finish your butterbeer?" Ron asked. "Probably just some Yank Malfoy pissed off."

"He mentioned Snape. I bet he's hunting down Death Eaters," Harry said. "I should talk to him later."

"Sounded like a gamekeeper of some kind ter' me," Hagrid announced, clearly eager to defend a fellow Skrewt-lover. "Likely workin' for the American Aurory or summat."

"I think I'm going to look into it. Do you want the rest of this?" Hermione slid Ron her butterbeer.

"Sure, but don't you think-?" Ron tried to suggest she not go alone, but she was gone. "Harry?"

"What, Ron?"

"Are we ever going to understand that girl?"

"Yeh answered yehr own question. She's a girl." Hagrid took another gulp of his mead. "They're not meant ter be understood."

"I get it."

******************************************************************* 

Maria Catesby hated her life. More specifically, she hated her idiot boyfriend, her conniving family, and the fact that she was a Slytherin. She had honestly considered leaping off the Astronomy Tower, or perhaps snapping her wand in half and going to become a Muggle stewardess. That sounded like fun. Milton Blodgett, the object of her eventual arranged marriage, was a rather snivelly fellow with a small wand, and not the kind you got from Ollivander's. What her parents were thinking, Maria would never know. 

Milton was sitting a little down the table from her on the other side. He gave her a smile that showed terribly neglected and rather crooked teeth. Maria faked a polite smile and tried not to shiver from her skin crawling. The headmaster tapped his glass for attention, and she was relieved to be able to look away.

"As you have doubtless heard, our Professor Moody has been summoned to an assignment overseas. I'm sure that you all share regret at his departure."

The Slytherins didn't. Mad-Eye Moody was harder on them than any other class, and usually his sidelong glares were worse than Professor Tyler's slightly acid joking. Maria personally found his eye gave her the creeps.

"Professor Moody has personally chosen his temporary replacement, whose family most of you have classes with. Students, I am proud to introduce the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for the remaining months, Mr. Bill Weasley!"

Blushing as red as his brother did, the ponytailed, red-haired man came up and shook Dumbledore's hand, accepting a grandfatherly hug and nervously waving. His robes were worn corduroy and he had a green Weasley sweater underneath, above some very well cut, handsomely dusty Egyptian leather pants.

Maria had never seen a hotter man in her life.

********************************************************************* 

"Professor?" Hermione looked around to make sure there was nobody around. "Severus?"

"Hermione? What's wrong?"

"There's a man after all the old Death Eaters, he mentioned you, his name's Billy Flynn! I think he might try to-"

"Kill me? Darling, do you think anybody could-"

"He threw Malfoy out of the Three Broomsticks by the collar and he's only about my height!"

"Draco's a featherweight-"

"Not that Malfoy, Lucius! I think he might be an American gangster-"

"Hermione!" Snape kissed her suddenly and she went silent. "If there were any Americans coming to get me, Cassandra would know. She specializes in that kind of thing."

"I haven't seen her all day! What if Billy Flynn –oh, no!"

Billy Flynn was indeed opening the door of the Potions room. His beard was scruffier and he appeared to be having some trouble breathing.

"For gods' sake, Sevvy, cut it off!" he gasped, throwing the fedora on the floor.

"Oh, calm down, Cassandra!" Snape drew a dagger from his belt and threw Flynn's robes upward, exposing his back. With the dagger he cut the Ace bandage that was about the gangster's ribcage, and suddenly Hermione heard a loud intake of breath.

"Damn those Weasley brothers anyway!" Cass stood up and began to pull off the pinstriped robes. "Bloody shrinking bandages could kill someone!"

"What did I tell you? If you have to bind your chest, use Muggle masking tape!" Snape threw up his hands in exasperation and piked up the mistreated fedora. "Always liked this hat."

"You mean to tell me that Billy Flynn is _you?"_

"Billy Flynn is a character in a musical. I couldn't think of anything else at the time. What did you think of the act?"

"Did you hit on her like I suggested?" Snape asked.

"Severus!" Hermione was appalled. "You helped her!"

"Helped me? Hell, everything but the thong and the bra are his." 

"Cassandra, I do believe _that_ was an overshare."

"Those are _yours?"_ Hermione stared at the pinstriped robes, which on closer inspection were sparkly and had sequined suspenders.

"Left over from the eighties, dear. Are you angry?"

"No, I'm appalled! Cass, how could you –ugh!" Hermione cringed at the idea that it had been a female hitting on her. 

"What? Sevvy wrote it down for me so it would be accurate." Cass handed Hermione a bit of paper covered in Snape's handwriting. "Look at it."

_"She won't take kindly to rudeness or crudity and if she smacks you the beard's liable to come off. Try kissing her hand, it's polite and suits the character. For Merlin's sake, don't slobber or let some of the beard come off. It's gross. Lucius Malfoy should be kicked in the balls a little to the left –old Quidditch injury. That should make him quite immobile for at least long enough to haul him out. John will cast the illusion on his wand from the second booth by the door, so don't get in his way or you'll look like a fruit literally."_

"Merciful peace, you even had John in on it!" Hermione was finally impressed.

"Did the charm work well?" the werewolf asked, closing the Potions room door behind him. "I was going to have it be a dildo, but some third-years were there."

"Didn't feel it'd be appropriate?"

"Didn't think they'd get the joke." John kissed Cass, then pulled out a washcloth and something that looked like makeup remover. "Here's the moisturizing kind you like."

"Thank you. Your beard didn't itch at all."

"His beard?" Hermione asked.

"Cass trimmed my hair and I put the beard on her with nail glue and corn syrup," John explained, shaking his head like a wet dog. "Took care of my split ends."

"Sevvy was all for giving me a potion to actually grow the beard, but for some weird reason John said no."

"All those purebloods need is you teaching with a five o'clock shadow." John kissed Cass on the forehead and gave her a hug, her head leaning nicely on his shoulder. They would have been picturesque except for the beard and male attire on Cass. 

"This is perfectly heartwarming for gay bars, but I think the beard's got to come off now." Cass went over to a cauldron and started to scrub off the sticky beard. "So, Hermione, was I convincing or not?"

"Hagrid thinks you're a gamekeeper and Ron doesn't care either way. He says that you have brass balls, though."

"Really?" Cass looked up from the cauldron with the beard half off and foam coming off her cheek. "What a lovely compliment –I think. By the way, do you and Sevvy want to come see a play with us?"

"Please do. We'd love to have the both of you along."

"Wait a moment!" Snape looked at the two Americans. "What gives you the impression that my student and I are a couple all of a sudden?"

John and Cass exchanged a knowing look.

"Because we've been trying to get you two to realize you go well together from the first day we arrived on this continent," Cass remarked a bit unintelligebly through the suds.

"Why, you naughty Yanks!" Hermione chastised, crossing her arms in abject dismay. "We're your _hobby?"_

"Yep," John and Cass said in unison.

"Hey, at least they picked you for me, instead of say, Trelawney?" Severus asked, pulling out a chair next to where she stood. He sat down and Hermione climbed onto his lap to hug him.

"Or worse, me with..._Neville_. Not that he's not likeable, but that'd be strange."

"I guess we'll just have to punish them." 

"Punish us?" John asked, raising an eyebrow as if he didn't think they could do it. "How?"

"I have two words for you, werewolf," Snape explained. "Jingle ball."

**************************************************************** 


	16. Death to the Roadcones!

A/N: Another day wasting life in school again. Guess I'll type. Here you go.

Chapter Sixteen: Death to the Roadcones

"She survived."

"How, Luciuss?"

"She wasn't in her house when we fired it."

"I sssee. And her parentsss?"

"We aren't certain. She doesn't seem to be grieving, though there's noplace in Britain where they could hide among Muggles."

"What about wizardsss?"

"They are Mudbloods. Who would _dare to shelter them?" Wormtail interjected._

"Silenccce, Wormtail. Luciuss, have you any ideasss?"

"The Weasleys, Arthur and Molly. Their youngest son is a friend of hers."

"As iss Harry Potter." The forked tongue flicked in and out menacingly. "Find them and dessstroy them."

"What about the girl? She could be taken care of easily, during the field trip with that filthy Muggle Dumbledore's hired."

"She shall not be harmed," Voldemort hissed, an evil grin breaking across his face. "I have _plansss_ for her. Luciuss, why is your wife listening over there?"

"Narcissa?" Lucius hurried to the velvet curtain and tore it aside, revealing his wife, who was indeed listening to them, an innocently fascinated smile on her face. "What are you doing here?"

"Writer's block, my love," she purred sweetly, letting her somewhat scandalous dress brush Lucius as she passed. "Political intrigues interest me _so_, I couldn't help coming to hear a bit." Turning on her best smoldering temptress charm, Narcissa curtseyed politely to Voldemort. "I _do_ apologize, my Lord. Silly girls like me miss their husbands sometimes." She gave Lucius a sidelong look, trying at once to look affectionate and not burst into tears from the hypocrisy her task required. "What do you have in mind for the Mudblood, my Lord? Is that the same one who attacked my son?"

"Narcissa, I don't think-"

"Nonsensse, Luciuss. I think your wife could be _mosst helpful." Astonishing how Moldy-Voldy could make those snakey eyes look lustful, Narcissa thought. Ecch. "The Mudblood'ss name iss Hermione Granger."_

"Funny name. Sounds awfully hard to spell." Narcissa hadn't been named _Wand and Ward's _Blonde of the Year twice in school for nothing.

"She iss the one I have chosen for the Replicatuss Filiusss spell," the reptilian man announced. "As your husssband would ssay, jussst in casse."

_'No,'_ Narcissa thought. _'He wouldn't!'_

"Any way I can help?" she purred.

"Yess. Forget it. _Obliviate!"_

*********************************************************************** 

"Morning, morning glory," Cass remarked, ambling into the Gryffindor sixth-year girls' dormitory as if it were a sibling's room. Hermione was the only one awake, reading a book in bed. 

"Cass! You startled me! Don't do that!"

"Well, I'd be startled too if someone jumped me while I was reading that." Cass sat down next to her friend and thumped the cover of the book. "What's a wizard chick doing with Stephen King?"

"Dad sent it. Your father's gotten him hooked on these kind of things."

"Oh. That's logical. My dad's a book junkie." Cass bit into a croissant from the paper bag she had brought. "Just don't read _'Misery'_ late at night. Scared me off writing for a year. Want a crescent thing?"

"Croissant. Thanks." Hermione nibbled one. "Mmm. Where did you get this?"

"My dad sent 'em. Your dad's got him hooked on Euro food."

"You yanks had never had croissants before?"

"Not these kind. These kind of crumbs go everywhere. Oh, don't worry, the house-elves will sweep 'em off!"

"Just what do you mean by Euro food?" Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Anything other than pizza, McDonald's fries or Chinese. Euro food. You know, stuff from across the pond?"

"Having never been to your side, I can't say I've ever had anything else."

"Never?" Cass's eyes widened. "You've never had a Krispy Kreme donut?"

"A what?"

"Potato Patch fries?"

"Huh?" 

"Primanti Brothers Sandwiches?"

"Nope." 

"Panera bread?"

"Is that Italian?" 

"Isaly's Chipped Chopped Ham?" Hermione shook her head and Cass gasped in horror. "You've _never_ had Heinz ketchup?"

"What is it?"

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph and Ted! My poor Hermione!" Cass hugged the startled girl and then leapt off the bed. "We are going on a field trip, you and me."

"We're going on one tomorrow, aren't we?"

"That's for school. This is for your ethnic enrichment." 

"Where are we going?" Cass grinned broadly. Hermione began to look a little scared. "I don't think I like that look."

"We are going to a magic land, where buildings are tall and people are still polite, where plain spuds and salt become pure heaven."

"Huh? Is this a wizarding place?"

"Hold on, I'm narrating. The rumble of wheels on wood and steel and the screams of orgiastic ecstasy are the loudest sounds you'll hear. There is music and there are little kids laughing and ducking under line bars. There is food like you have never dreamed of and thrills you couldn't even get on a broom with Sev."

"Cass, you're insane. What have you got in mind?"

"Kennywood."

"What in hell is that?"

"The best amusement park on the face of God's green earth."

"Is it open?"

"Opens today. It's May, after all."

"What sort of place is it? I mean, what do they have there?"

"The finest rollercoasters ever built, antique rides maintained in perfect operating condition, vintage buildings and the best food you will ever taste in this world or the next."

"And where is this place?"

"Ummm..." Cass hedged. "I have a Portkey there in a Ziploc bag, won't take us two minutes."

"Is it in America?"

"Sorta."

"How can anyplace be _sorta_ in America?"

"It's in Pittsburgh. Well, somewhat to the left of it."

"You're trying to make me go with you to America?"

"You will, right?"

"You're insane." Hermione took a sip of water from the glass on her nightstand. "Why go to America? We have rollercoasters here."

"I've seen those bits of bolts you English call coasters," Cass remarked, polishing off her croissant with a cynical look. "Trust me. It'll be loads of fun."

"Is there any way I can get out of this?"

"Nope. I'm faculty. You have to come."

"Alright." Hermione got up and opened her drawer. "What do I wear?"

"T-shirt and jeans."

"I haven't got any-" Cass transfigured her clothes to worn flares and a Pittsburgh Penguins t-shirt. "Oh. Okay. Why the Antarctic bird?"

"That is a penguin, you."

"I know it's a penguin. What's it doing on my chest?"

"Playing goalie. What does it look like it's doing?"

"You're mad."

Cass took a Ziploc bag from her pocket and opened it. Inside was a small yellow magnet in the shape of an arrow with 'Kennywood' written on it.

"Touch the arrow."

"Don't I need shoes?" Cass took out her wand again and instantly Hermione had on some nicely broken-in Steve Maddens. "Spiffing," she observed sarcastically. "May I leave a note for the other girls?"

"Sure. I've already owled Sev."

"Why, you!"

"Yeah, I sort of had the outing planned. Shoot me." Cass shook the plastic bag impatiently. "We do want to beat the early lines on the Exterminator."

"The what?"

"It's a ride. Really mild, you sit in little cars shaped like mice and roll around in the dark. You'll love it."

"Alright, Cass." Hermione touched the arrow and was swept away.

"English." Cass grinned. She had exaggerated to the reverse a little bit. Touching the magnet, she vanished, leaving the Portkey neatly on Hermione's pillow. Half an hour later, Lavender and Parvati got up, oblivious to anything out of the ordinary. 

****************************************************************** 

_'Sevvy dear,  
            We're going to Kennywood. It's an American place. Probably horribly dangerous, with lots of crowds Death Eaters could hide in. It's also disturbingly romantic without being cloyingly so, especially at night. I'll leave the Portkey in her room. Dare you to come!  
                                                                                                            -Cass'_

It was infuriating. Damn that American!

"How do you stand her, John?"

"Cassie?" John thought for a moment. "She might seem wild, but she has a shy side, too."

"Where?" Severus added lacewings to the potion he was working on. "Soles of her feet?"

"She's scared of spiders, too," John mused. 

"Oh! Spiders! She's practically a pussycat."

"Well, she does-"

"Don't you dare! I do _not_ want that mental image, thank you."

"She kept pet mice when she was younger, s'all."

"Oh." Severus made the fire under the cauldron cool down a bit. "I had an owl when I was four."

"I had a collie named Higgins."

"After Shaw's Professor?"

"Yep."

"I _thought_ that was your favorite musical. The casting is supposed to be brilliant."

"Alan Rickman is just who I'd have chosen," John agreed. They were planning to surprise Cass and Hermione with tickets to 'My Fair Lady' next month to celebrate the end of O.W.L.s. "I'm sort of unsure about the costumes. That's always a hard show since the movie was so good."

"What is this Kennywood place?" Severus asked distractedly. 

"It's an amusement park. Pittsburghers are insane about it." John finished chopping the roots and slid them to Severus. "Its like Russians and Lenin. You can't talk down Kennywood and keep your balls."

"Colorful expression. Is it a crowded place?"

"Not very, actually. It's quite well landscaped, sort of like Hyde Park with more trees and big shiny rides."

"What would one wear if one wanted to attend this place?"

"Jeans and a t-shirt."

"Not shorts?"

"Cassie maintains that your legs stick to the vinyl if you wear shorts. You can slide more if you've got on jeans."

"Slide?"

"When the ride spins, your girl slides into your arms. Centrifugal force, you know, wonderful invention."

Snape extinguished the fire and let the potion cool. Stepping into his chambers, he returned about five minutes later dressed in black jeans and a Slytherin t-shirt with a snake on it. 

"Would these be appropriate?"

"Sure. Lose the shoes, though. Sometimes you get wet there."

Severus agreeably changed shoes to some black Muggle sneakers Cass had gotten him. Her theory was that they would be good for sneaking up on students who were out after curfew, and he found them rather comfy, actually. John pulled off his robes, revealing a different Slytherin t-shirt and jeans that had a leather patch for a back pocket.

"Cassandra said the Portkey would be in Hermione's room."

"I've got my own," John explained, pulling a Ziploc bag out of his robe pocket before hanging them up neatly. "Do you get motion sickness?"

"No, why?"

"Then you'll love this place."

******************************************************************* 

 Narcissa knew she had been memory charmed. For starters, there was a page of her journal she didn't remember doing, let alone writing about, and then there were the sixty-two pages of a new romance novel she must have started but which she couldn't even recall thinking up. 

As it was, she was rather disturbed by it. The novel read like a transvestite Tolstoy on really awful drugs. She had known that she didn't write great stuff, but boy, was this manuscript a piece of shit!

She had to see Severus. He was the only man in England who could reverse Obliviates with a potion. 

That little tidbit of information was written inside of her makeup kit, just in case.

******************************************************************* 

"Okay, maybe it's _not_ such a mild ride."

Hermione looked up from the water she had been staring into, trying to keep from throwing up. Her expression was rather less than pleased. "And maybe we could have done without vinegar on the fries."

"I think it was the fact that we ate three dish-things of them."

Cass patted Hermione's shoulder.

"Next time we'll have broccoli and cheese on 'em."

"Can we ride that big one now?" Hermione pointed to a huge steel coaster.

"The Steel Phantom?" Cass gulped. "That one's better after dark."

"How about that one?" Hermione pointed to the Whip, which was a simple flat ride that looked much milder. 

"That sounds good. Want to get some lunch afterwards?"

"Are you really hungry or something?"

"I'm craving fries. Go figure." Cass inspected the fingernail marks on her arm where Hermione had been scared on the last ride. 

"Okay, should you be riding rollercoasters, Cass? It says no expectant mothers."

"Silly girl. The full moon's this week." Cass sighed. "I'm still having trouble in that department, actually."

"Is the potion helping, or can you tell?"

"I think it might be. Maybe this soon, I can't expect any good results."

"Soon?"

"I had a miscarriage awhile ago." Cass explained shortly. 

"I'm sorry."

"They say I'm still young enough to have more kids." The werewolf sighed. 

"My parents had a hard time having me. That's why they're older and I'm an only child."

"I suspected that. My mom died of cancer when I was two."

"Is that why you're worried?"

"Yes, actually." Cass was biting her lip. "My aunt had it, my grandmother, my mom..." 

"Was it breast cancer?"

"And you quit Divination class." Cass smiled. "Come on. This ride won't make you spew like the last one did."

********************************************************************** 

"Are you crazy?" John asked. "We just had fries."

"And they're great!" Severus agreed, eating the last four in one big bite. "I haven't had chips like this since I was a fifth-year. How do they make them so big? English ones are loads thinner."

"You can watch them being made for a little bit. Let's not go right onto the Thunderbolt again."

"I like it! It's really a brilliant thing, this Muggle ride. Where are the motors on the trains?"

"There _aren't_ any motors, or brakes, either, on the cars." As the two men waited in line, John explained how rollercoasters worked. Snape was fascinated. 

"I wonder if we could build one outside Hogwarts."

Ten minutes later, Severus Snape was looking positively sick.

"I loathe America," he observed, sinking onto a bench with a sardonic glare. "If you say one word, John, I'll use an Unforgivable."

******************************************************************* 

"It's beautiful at night. Look at all the lights."

"Yeah. I sort of wish John had come along, but he had to work with Sev. 'Sides, then we would've had an odd number of people."

"Want to ride on the big one now?" 

"Hermione, you're a glutton for punishment. You almost tossed your cookies on the Jack Rabbit."

"I was completely not expecting that double hill," Hermione protested. "Come on, Cass...you're not afraid, are you?"

"Of course not!" Cass checked her watch for the seventh time. "Why don't we go on Noah's Ark?"

"Noah's Ark? I thought that was just a decoration."

"It's sort of like a haunted house. Come on."

"Then we can ride the really big coaster?"

"Sure."

Cass swore under her breath as they got in line. Giving Hermione caffienated soda had been a big mistake.

The ride began with about fifteen people being ushered into a service elevator, with realistic-looking rust on the walls and pebbled dirt outside the streaked windows. Cass leaned against a wall as if it were no big deal, forcing Hermione to face her and thus miss John and Severus joining them with the crowd. 

"What is this thing?"

"Muggle elevator. It lifts us up to the next floor."

"Oh. Hermione!" Severus saw his student and hurried across the elevator to hug her. Just then, a disembodied voice began to speak as the elevator began to rise shakily.

"This service elevator has been in place since long before the building of Kennywood Park. Archaeologists used it in the early years of the last century, some of whom are still there. Since this is an industrial elevator, we must ask that you holllllddd onnn-" 

The elevator's lights blinked wildly and then went black. Out the windows they could see that the cables had broken and they were falling very rapidly. Hermione screamed and Severus held her tight, just as terrified.

A moment later they heard a soft thump, the lights came on, and the door opened. They were now in a weirdly lit passage. There were two beams to walk on above deep chasms filled with the archaeologists' skeletons and creepy giant spiders as big as Severus's hand.

"What in hell have you gotten us into?" Snape roared. A little kid of about six smiled at him.

"It's okay, mister. There's glass. Lookit." The little boy hopped up and down on what had looked like a terrifying hole. "My sister says it's not real. Don't worry."

Severus had never been so embarrassed in his life. Cass and John absolutely cracked up.

"Admit it, it was funny."

"You filthy Yanks." Hermione seethed. "You knew that was going to happen, didn't you?"

"Well, no, the little kid was an added plus." John grinned. "I didn't know you blushed that color, Sev."

**************************************************************** 

"What is this?" Snape asked as the Americans stopped in front of a rather large and old convertible, painted black with blue flames on the front.

"My beloved car!" Cass cried. "Sweet Dingo, did you miss me? Oh, that's Mummy's good car!" She petted the hood lovingly as if it were a St. Bernard.

"Is she serious?" Severus asked John.

"What can I say? I married a motor chick."

Cass had reached in with her keys and started Dingo. 

"Listen to him purr!" She hopped in without opening the door and turned on the stereo system, which sounded as if it had equaled if not surpassed the cost of the car. Cass's father had respectfully left her Doors CD in, and the whole scene looked like something out of a seventies movie. "Come on, guys!"

Hermione's mother had made the mistake of letting her see _'Almost Famous.'_ The bookworm leapt happily into the car just as her friend had.

"This is _such_ a cool car," she observed. "Guys, come on!"

"There is no way I'll trust Cassandra behind the wheel." Severus announced.

"Then John'll drive." Cass moved over on the leather bench seat and John obligingly got behind the wheel. He actually opened his door to accomplish this. With a distrustful frown, Severus climbed into the back seat. "Let's rock and roll!"

"Death to the Roadcones, love?" John asked a little excitedly half an hour later. They had come to a construction zone and there was no traffic, since it was almost twelve. 

"Death to the Roadcones!" Cass crowed exultantly. "Hermione, get the broom."

"Broom?"

"In the glove compartment."

Expecting a magically shrunken broom, Hermione opened the glove compartment. Instead, there were pipelike sections of a screw-together broom. Cass grabbed some and assembled them while John searched the CD player. He paused it just before a song right as they finished building the broom.

"Ready, loves?" he asked. "Ready, Sev?"

"Hold on tight, Hermione," Cass cried, shoving the broom out the window and holding it like a trireme oar. "Rock and roll!"

John hit the play button and and floored the accelerator. Cass and Hermione jabbed out with the broom as the bar passed, knocking over the orange road markers with disturbing glee. Severus was watching all this in abject horror.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Isn't this illegal?"

"Just enjoy it, Sev!" John shouted over Jim Morrison's singing. "You need to loosen up!"

********************************************************************** 

_'Dear diary,  
I loathe my life. Iocaine poison is too slow. Bleeding is messy and Blaise took away my razor blades. I either need to kill myself or run away. _

_There's a field trip tomorrow, though, won't want to miss that. I have to learn about Muggles to live among them, after all. I do like Professor Tyler's class. Yesterday she made Draco Malfoy sing 'I'm a Little Teapot' because he didn't do his homework. We had to write about a famous Muggle who shares our first name. Some of them were really cool.  Neville Longbottom's was about Neville Chamberlain, Ron Weasley did his on Ron Howard, Harry Potter chose Harry Nilsson and sang a song for us, and Hermione Granger wrote a small thesis on Hermione Gingold, who was a Muggle actress and sounds very cool. There are just about no Muggles named Draco. I wrote about Maria Von Trapp. She married a captain in the Austrian army who already had some kids and years later had a musical made about her life. I wanted to do Julie Andrews but my mom didn't name me that._

_Note to self: find out what pucomters are and why Muggles shake their fists at them. _

**********************************************************************

_"I_ need to loosen up, you say." Severus remarked as John drove the car back to Cass's father's house. Hermione was asleep in the backseat with him, her head on his lap, and Cass was just as gone, leaning on John's shoulder. "What did Cassandra _do_ to Hermione?"

"Every woman has a secret party side. All Cassie did was open Pandora's box." John grinned, hugging Cass with his free arm. Severus was unconsciously doing something similar.

"I shudder to think what dirty minds would do to that metaphor."

********************************************************************** 

A/N: And what is going to happen? Can Narcissa's memory be restored? Will the poor Brits have terrible indigestion from the fries? And what is going on with Maria Catesby? All these and more in the next chapter!


	17. StudentTeacher Relationships

A/N: I really love all the reviews I've been getting. Reviews are nice. Here you go.

Chapter Seventeen: Student-Teacher Relationships

"I loathe my life."

"Well, that's no reason to go leaping off a tower," Professor Weasley pointed out. "For one thing, it would be an awful thing to do to your family and friends, and for another, it's really a stereotype. Why don't you poison yourself next time?"

"Oh, that reverse-psychology bull is _really_ going to work on me, Gryffie-boy," Maria hissed. "Will you put me down?"

"Gryffie-boy. That's nice," Bill replied just as sarcastically. "Why don't I carry you to Professor Snape's? I'm sure _he'll_ know what to do with you."

"Why don't you do that?" Maria leaned her head on her professor's shoulder, feeling sleepy and really wanting to cry more than anything. "I don't care."

Bill sensed a note of despair in her voice and began to carry her, but not toward the dungeons. He had once caught his own sister wanting to kill herself after Voldemort had risen again, and he knew something of what to do. Head of House for Slytherin or not, Snape was not the one to take a suicidal female to. 

"I remember I jumped off the Tower once," Bill remarked.

"Reverse-psychology, idle threats, and lying anecdotes. What's next?"

"Oh, I wasn't trying to kill myself," Bill explained. "I had my new broom in my hands and I wanted to test the braking charm. You leap off the Tower and count until the broom catches you."

"And if it doesn't?" Maria asked coldly.

"That's why you bring either a good friend or a fat mattress." Bill joked, not laughing or even smiling as he opened the door to his chambers by kicking it. "Speaking of." He put the girl down on a fat leather couch and pulled a red-and-gold Weasley afghan over her. "You take sugar in your coffee?"

"Whiskey, actually." Maria resented his seemingly forced kindness.

"Will Irish do?" Bill asked, unstoppering a decanter as if that was how he prepared his as well. Maria's eyes widened as he fixed two spiked cups expertly. "Nibby should be up in a bit with sandwiches. Do you like chipped ham?"

"I love it," Maria replied without thinking. "I mean, we had it in Professor Tyler's class and it was okay."

"She's a mad one, isn't she?" Bill asked rhetorically. "Never play poker with Americans. She and her husband rooked me into chaperoning that field trip tomorrow. You going?"

"Yeah." 

"My dad has a weird thing for Muggle stuff, guess it rubbed off on me." Bill picked up a metal Slinky that had been resting on his coffee table and began to play with it, sitting lazily in a chair. "Funny stuff they make."

"What's it for?" Maria asked, sitting up and sipping her coffee. Gods, he made it strong, and not just in the sense of too many beans.

"Don't know. I just like to play with it." Bill handed or one end and showed her how waves would travel down the spring and back. "Do you play Quidditch?"

"No."

"Pity. You have nice hands for it." He reached out and took her hand in his. "See, the long fingers are good for catching and you have a nice, soft palm. Some Seekers make the mistake of letting their hands callous. You can break the wings if your hands are too hard."

Maria let out a little cry. Professor Weasley had been stroking her hand very gently and it was frightening her. Any second now he would spring and then it would hurt so much…

Bill released her hand and took another sip of his coffee, eyebrow raised.

"You okay?"

She didn't look at him.

"Who was he?"

Maria didn't answer and Bill went to the door and got the sandwiches from Nibby, giving the elf a ball of a certain kind of yarn he was short of to finish a pair of socks. Bill picked up a sandwich from the tray and bit into it, walking around the back of the couch to his own chair.

"Look, Miss Catesby, I have a sister and a very intelligent mum, so you might as well tell me who the bastard was."

"Which one?" Maria asked.

"The one who-" Bill clarified before realizing what she meant. "Godric's bones. Are you –er, in an um -family way? Is that why you jumped?"

For all of his rock-star accoutrements, Maria realized, her professor was still an innocent, chivalrous Gryffindor in many ways.

"No, sir. I've escaped that so far."

"I'll kill those sons-of-bitches for doing this to you," Bill swore quietly. 

"Professor, you've only known my name at the most three months. We aren't even friends," Maria pointed out defeatedly. For the first time a man was standing up for her and she just wanted him to stop.

"Noone who would do this to a woman deserves to live."

Bill's jaw was set and his eyes were like bits of green ice. Maria felt the sting of tears and bit her lip to stop them from falling.

"Why do I want to kiss you now?" she asked.

"You don't need me that way, not now," Bill said gently, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "All you need is gentleness and a friend or two and you'll be alright. My sister and her friends will be on the trip tomorrow, too. I'll make sure nobody hurts you then."

Maria knew Ginny and Hermione as acquaintances and she managed a smile. She stayed in her professor's living room for quite awhile, talking about classes, nibbling sandwiches, and taking turns reading aloud to each other from a new book Professor Weasley had found in a Muggle shop. It was comforting, but Maria couldn't help feeling something more for him. Was she so far gone that simple tenderness could win her heart totally?

Or worse, she thought direly, but with a little smile, was she really falling in love with someone?

************************************************************ 

"Oh, _great,"_ Ron observed sarcastically. "Professor Tyler's got the Greasy Git along. Bill, too."

"Speaking of, Ron, he's hot. I think I'd fancy screwing him once or twice."

Hermione had yet to recover from her little trip with Cass. Her inner monologue was shot.

"_Tell_ me you meant –_no!_ Neither one of them is good!" Ron looked genuinely squicked. "Eeew."

"What's wrong, brother dear?" Ginny asked demurely, appearing in her newly transfigured Muggle clothes. "Somebody mention Tampax again?"

"Hermione said she'd fancy a go with either Bill or Snape!"

"Right on, sister! If he weren't related, I'd be checking him out myself."

"Eeeeew! Ginny!"

"And Severus?" Hermione asked, wanting her friend's opinion. Ginny's startled face and Ron's eyebrows raising physically off his head let her know she'd screwed up.

"You call him Severus?" Ron asked, agog.

"I like it, such a sibilant name, Severus," Cass agreed, showing up with what looked suspiciously like a screwdriver in her hand. The fact that she had something of a lisp rather marred the effect. "Pity I'm off the market. Sweet lord, you've got it, too!"  Cass began inspecting Ron's posterior. "Damn."

"How many brothers have you got, Ginny?" Hannah Abbott asked.

"Six."

"Oooh! Plenty to go around! A veritable man buffet!" Cass took another sip of the orange drink and Hermione really began to think it was a screwdriver. What would Dumbledore think? "'Mione, duck, I need a word." Cass motioned her friend away. "So, how do you like it?"

"Drinking in public before a school event! Cass!"

"It's orange juice and Mountain Dew. How do you wake up after a roadcones night?"

 "Jeez. I thought that was a screwdriver."

"Get you mind out of the gutter, girl. How do you like it?"

"Like what? Your shirt?"

Cass was wearing a peculiar garment that looked like a refugee from Sir Elton John's closet. 

"Isn't it nice? No, I meant Sevvy. Look."

Snape was dressed up in the suit Cass had borrowed for her male alter ego. In glittery pinstripes and a fedora, with his long hair tied in a ponytail at the back, Snape looked decidedly dishier than in black billowy robes. His expression however, was rather Less Than Pleased.

"What was that, your project for the morning? Make him look like a refugee from 'guys and Dolls'?"

"You don't like it?"

"I love it. I just wish the other girls would quit getting those looks of 'take me now, sexy Slytherin!'"

Cass glanced at her students, who were indeed looking rather like they had just heard Ewan McGregor sing.

"Holy shit," she observed bluntly. "Those upstart nymphomaniacs. Imagine, the nerve of them, noticing someone's hot!"

"Are you being sarcastic, Yank?"

"Is George Michael gay?"

"I don't know. What does that have to with it?"

"Satan with chips, Hermione! Don't you know anything?"

"I know a certain Yank who's going to be fetching a squeaky toy tomorrow."

"Is that the only derogatory term you've got for me, 'Yank'? Pathetic."

"Are we fighting?"

"I think so." Cass looked around and a second later both of them cracked up.

"What were we fighting about again?" Hermione asked.

"The hotness of Sevvy, I think."

"No, because that's a solid fact." Hermione grinned and blushed a little bit. "Am I a stupid git to be liking him?"

"Liking him? No. Loving him? No. Boinking him on camera and selling tapes to a witches' porn company? Perhaps."

"Now whose mind's in the gutter, Cass?"

"Oh! Speaking of gutters!" Cass raised her voice and addressed the students. "The shiny fast things with people inside are called cars. Don't step off the curb or they'll squish you flat, got it?"

"I think they know what cars are," Hermione pointed out.

"I'm just talking to Malfoy's gay love slaves –I mean bodyguards –I mean, Crabbe and Goyle." Cass watched as the entire fifth and sixth year classes of Slytherins went either ashen or scarlet, depending on who they were. "Oopsies, did I leave the Sonorus charm on? Shit."

Ron was laughing so hard Ginny feared he would soil himself, and Harry was no better. Snape was glowering more and more by the second, and she had to shut the Gryffie boys up somehow, so she did the one and only thing she could think of.

Harry's eyes went wide and Ron averted his with a squeak of shock. Seamus and Dean burst into applause and Neville cried out 'Encore!' as she pulled her top back down.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor, Miss Weasley," Snape announced in a voice that made half of the total females present's knees to water, "for indecent exposure on school grounds."

"_One hundred and fifty_ points to Gryffindor, Miss Weasley," Cass announced, raising an eyebrow at Snape, "for cunning use of wits."

Neville couldn't stand it and burst out laughing.

"Two hundred points from Gryffindor for insolence, Mr. Longbottom!"

"_Seven_ hundred for great timing, Neville!"

"_Eight_ hundred points to Slytherin for appropriate clothes, Mr. Malfoy," Snape purred, almost grinning at Cass meanly.

_"One million _points from Slytherin for…well, you just plain piss me off. Nevermind."

Everybody laughed, except Snape, Hermione, Bill and Maria. Snape was too busy being a greasy git, Bill and Maria were too busy sending furtive looks at each other, and Hermione was too busy noticing them.

"Is this field trip going to be fun or what?"

*************************************************************** 

"Is Severus here?" Narcissa asked Dumbledore.

"No, dear, I'm afraid he's gone on a field trip today. Is something wrong?"

"I…I've forgotten something," Narcissa gasped. "It must have been terribly important, or why would I have forgotten it?"

"Are those the same clothes you were wearing when you last recall?" John Tyler asked, looking a little serious.

"Yes, they are."

"Good. Spread your legs."

"What?" Narcissa complied and he took something from her garter, nodding politely. Dumbledore was amused but also slightly disturbed. "What in hell is that?" Narcissa asked.

"My wife's microcassette recorder. It's finished, but I daresay whatever happened is on tape."

"Don't Muggle objects stop working in magical places?" Narcissa asked.

"At a place like Hogwarts, yes. At your home, I doubt it. The worst I've ever gotten there is a touch of spell-static, and a good stereo clears that up."

Dumbledore was impressed.

"Shall we go to the Shrieking Shack, John?" he asked. "I've never heard a Muggle stereo before."

"What's a Muggle stereo doing in the Shrieking Shack?" Narcissa asked.

"My Cassie and I are staying there," John explained. "I had a man from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office help me electrify the place. As soon as we get enough folding chairs, Cass is going to start showing movies to her class in there."

"How clever," Narcissa observed airily. "What _are_ movies?"

************************************************************  

He thought he had grown inured to cruelty. The fact was, one never did.

The Filius Replicatus spell was one of the cruelest things wizards had ever come up with. It basically took the spirit, powers and knowledge of someone and copied that into another soul. The book Lucius was reading said that Roman emperors employed it sometimes to guarantee their sons would fulfill their wishes when they were dead. Lucius knew it was one of the darkest things anyone could have done to them. It meant a life of almost schizophrenic existence, for when the donor wizard died or if they were dead at the time of the spell, they would be somewhat reincarnated in the victim's body. 

And he would have to do this to one of his son's classmates.

Wait!

Why on earth would the Dark Lord want a Muggle-born to be his heir? And the granger girl was too old, she might resist the spell or worse, turn it back on them. If her sense of what she felt was right remained and Lord Voldemort was killed, she would have all of his powers and her own mind. It would mean death for the Death Eaters.

Something in the plan was flawed.

*************************************************************** 

A/N: And there you are! Reviews?


	18. La Vie de Espionade

A/N: I am learning to play the trumpet. I got an old one that needs some work, but plays okay. I've been practicing every day and teaching myself, and my lip is so swollen I can barely talk. So I have nothing to do but type. Here you go.

Chapter Eighteen: La Vie de Espionade

'Mr. Billy Flynn is cordially invited to the annual celebration of the May at the home of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Dinner will be served promptly at eight, dress formal. R.S.V.P.'

"Wow. Your drag persona is a socialite."

"Severus, you bastard!" Cass, Bill, and Snape were sharing a compartment on the train to London with the Muggle Studies field trip. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Find a tuxedo, obviously."

"You bastard!"

"You've said that already."

"I can't pass myself off as a _guy_ for an entire night, let alone surrounded by Death Eaters!"

"It _won't_ be Death Eaters, Cassandra. The celebration of the May is Lucius' guarantee that he isn't suspected. Fudge will be there and three-quarters of the Ministry. I believe Narcissa invited the Weasleys as well this year, just to make certain, what with Voldemort's being back and all."

"Oh, that's just splendid! All I need is Ron and Ginny noticing the pointed and obvious fact that I'm a freakin' female!"

"Not Ron and Virginia, Arthur and Molly. I think Bill was asked as well?"

The redhaired professor nodded.

"Yeah. I don't know if I'm going yet. Explain something, though, who is Billy Flynn?"

"Me," Cass remarked dryly. "Sevvy, you explain."

"Cassandra needed to intimidate Lucius Malfoy, so I lent her some of my clothes and got her all tarted up as a man."

"Cass, really? I never knew." Bill grinned.

"Oh, stuff it. I can't very well refuse, can I, what with humiliating him in the pub and all?"

"No," Snape said bluntly. "But I have an idea as to how you can pass for a guy. Bring a date."

"A date? Where in hell am _I_ going to find a date?"

"Well, you could dress your husband up," Bill suggested, as John reappeared with a bucket of ice and some drinks.

"Tell me I didn't hear that," the redhaired werewolf said, looking a little scared. 

"No way. John makes an ugly chick."

"How do you know?" John asked, looking at his wife in surprise.

"That fraternity prank. I was in the back."

"I thought I looked fairly good."

"If you had borrowed my sparkly blue one instead of the black, it would have gone better."

"Okay, I don't even want to know about that," Snape shuddered. "I myself would suggest an actual _girl_ to go."

"What do you mean, an actual girl?" Cass looked offended.

"I mean a girl who's pretending to be the date of the boy you're pretending to be."

"Oh. Why didn't you just say Ginny?" Bill asked. "She could do it."

"Naw, too young." Cass frowned. "Billy Flynn's got a beard. Ginny looks at the most sixteen."

"How about Professor Trelawney?" Bill suggested next.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with an 'eccch.'"

"I bet Hermione could pull it off," John mused. "She's been such a great sport about all of this."

"All of what?" Bill asked. Cass quickly spoke to cover for Sevvy.

"You know, werewolves teaching classes, recreational nudism, all of it."

"When was there recreational nudism?" Severus asked.

"In the –oh, wait. That was just us two. Sorry." Cass waved it off airily and John looked a little red. "We were playing tag and things got a bit silly."

"Spare me." 

"I don't think the first-years were damaged for _life_."

"Cassandra, must you?"

"What?"

"There is a truly awful mental picture in my mind right now."

"Shake your head really hard and think about Quidditch."

"Seriously, I think Hermione'd be fabulous," John said. "I know just the charms to make her a bit older-looking, and she can wear the 1920's dress."

"Does she have the build for that?" Bill asked. "I've seen a dress of my grandmother's and in the twenties, women were –uh..."

"Light as a feather an' flat as a board?" Cass asked.

"Yeah."

"Flat as a board, easy to nail," the female werewolf continued, giving John a nudge in the ribs. "Isn't that how the saying goes?"

Severus began to choke and John politely thumped him on the back.

"Don't worry, mate. Cassie'll be the only one trying to hide natural gifts."

"I don't think I like _that_ idea any more than recreational nudism."

"Poor professor. You really like your Potions assistant, don't you?" Bill asked obliviously. It was then Cass' turn to require a thump on the back. "Were you invited as well?"

"Yes," Severus replied shortly. 

"Who do you want to invite?"

"I don't know. I think I'll go alone."

"We could go stag together, then, if you want. I don't know anyone but Ginny who's not busy."

"Thanks, Bill. I think that would be good."

"It would sure throw Lucy Malfoy off," Cass agreed in her Billy Flynn accent. The other professors stared at her. "What? I've got to practice, right?"

******************************************************************* 

"Gaaaah!"

"Calm down, Draco, it's only a mixer." Hermione turned the appliance off. They were in groups of four, exploring a Muggle department store. Ron and Harry sniggered.

"What's so funny?" Draco asked, moving toward Ron. "I didn't see you touching that thing when it went off."

"Calm down, laddies," John interjected, coming from behind a teapot display. "Something fascinating about toasters, is they never heat bagels the way I like. A good toasting charm's better for them. But for cinnamon toast, you need one of these." The tall American pushed down the lever on a trim pop-up toaster, revealing a small star on his forearm. Draco went ashen.

"Er- excuse me." He moved to walk away and John stopped him.

"Like my star?" he asked, pointing to the five-pointed pentacle. 

"Er- yes, sir."

"I'm a werewolf, by the way. One of the Jamestown Tylers. You being a Malfoy, you've likely heard of us." Draco nodded, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I'm just as pureblooded as you, if not more so, and I get along quite well with Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley here. Think about it."

Draco looked at the tall man suspiciously and then slowly nodded. John grinned and handed him a spaghetti spoon. "Don't these things look silly?"

*******************************************************************

"Say, 'Mione, want to go out with me?" Cass asked as they were washing their hands in the girls' room at Harrod's.

"Huh?" Hermione was surprised. "Like, a 'day with the girls' kind of thing?"

"Naw. I need a date for the Malfoys' ball."

_"What?"_

"I've got to pass myself off as male. I need a date or somebody'll definitely catch me."

"You're going to do Billy Flynn again?"

"Not _do_ him, _be_ him. You've got a crazy mind."

_"I've_ got a crazy mind? You're going to walk into Malfoy Manor in full, electric, larger-than-life _Las Vegas drag_, and you want _me_ to go along!"

"Not in drag, though. John found you a lovely dress."

"_John_ found the dress? You let your _husband_ shop?"

"No, he sewed the dress. I can't sew to save my life."

Hermione looked a little confused.

"Cass, something is not correct when you're _that_ good in drag and your husband sews."

"Are you suggesting we're reverse-homosexuals? I don't think that's even possible."

"Well, it's a bit screwy, but alright, I'll go." Hermione smiled. "It sounds sort of devious."

"Devious? Hell, we're the diversion for Sevvy to work his secret spy magic." Cass purred. "And John'll be helping, too. Sexy spies."

"What's John doing?"

"Sniffin'. Turns into a wolf, acts like Sevvy's sniffy dog."

"Bloodhound?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." Hermione seemed intrigued with this idea. "And we have to distract the Malfoys how?"

"I think perhaps some clever swing-dancing."

"Do you know _how_ to dance?"

"Sort of. I did read a book on it once." Cass grinned haplessly and Hermione frowned at her. "But John and Sevvy said they'll teach us starting tonight."

"And what happens if we get caught?"

"I don't know... pretend to be Las Vegas lesbians?"

"Er..."

"Or then again, maybe not."

********************************************************************* 


	19. The Armpit Vampire Kitten of Death

Chapter Nineteen: The Armpit Vampire Kitten of Death

"And the six uses for a newspaper are?" Cass asked, quizzing the class as they rode the bus to the next part of their field trip. Several students raised their hands and she called on Ron. "Mr. Weasley."

"Reading, making piñatas, paper hats, improptu umbrellas, blocking drafts, and lining a hamster cage."

"Correct. Now, why are you all wearing bustiers?"

The students looked down and discovered, much to some of their surprise, that they were all indeed wearing bustiers. Many also had fishnets, high heels, and the like, and Neville had a brilliant pink feather boa. Hermione's outfit had a tastefully Nicole Kidman-esque peignoir in black, which matched the faintly absurd getup John had decided to transfigure Snape's clothes into. The shock was total, especially as Crabbe and Goyle discovered they had fabulously realistic fake breasts. By the time Malfoy had time to mumble something rather derogatory about man-tits, the bus was in a state of advancing furor.

Hermione looked out her window and noticed something awful, something that sent chills up her spine and terror into her heart, something genuinely appalling that made her again give second thoughts to the meaning of Cass's drag habit. 

It was old. 

It was seedy. 

It was the best independently owned art house in London.

The Altagracia.

Once it had been an ordinary, thriving movie theater; about the time talkies were the latest fad. It had declined in later years but become gloried yet again during the nineteen-seventies, especially when an enterprising projectionist had brought an American take on Richard O'Brien's opus to Dennon Street nightlife. At present, there was a backup of dragsters waiting in the ticket line, and not the Jeff Gordon kind. Hermione was appalled, but she raised her hand.

"Yes, Hermione?" Cass asked politely, as if she and her husband hadn't personally redressed an entire busful of students in electric drag. 

"Are we going to see 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'?" she asked.

"I bet you're the brightest in your class, aren't you?" Cass grinned. "Ladies and gentlemen and undecided, off the bus!"

Confusedly, the students disembarked. As a very attractive drag-Snape passed the female werewolf, he whispered something in her ear:

"I am not pleased with you."

****************************************************************** 

"What is that noissse, Luciuss?" the serpentine semi-human Dark wizard asked.

"I don't know, my Lord. I will attend to it." Lucius went to the front door and opened it, only to discover a tiny striped kitten making a chirping noise. He thought for a moment and then carried it back to his master by the scruff of the neck.

"What iss thisss?"

"It is a kitten, sir."

"What doess it do?"

"Well, er- it walks about and makes that squeaking sound..."

"It iss annoying. I want it killed."

Lucius obediently turned on his heel and went from the room, the tiny kitten squeaking in terror. He passed the big wolfhound he was taking care of for his friend Severus and had an idea. 

"Here, Wolfe." He dropped the kitten in front of the huge, powerful animal. "Consider it a gift."

The wolfhound picked up the kitten and padded away. Lucius smiled gently at the idea of being kind to his friend's pet and turned around.

Narcissa was standing behind him with a gaze of absolute hatred. The Death Eater's face fell.

"I fed it to Wolfe. It was a treat for him."

"You murdered an innocent kitten."

"It was too small to live without it's mother anyway! The Dark Lord ordered it killed!" Lucius protested as his wife turned away. "Narcissa!"

"You could have tried," she accused coldly.

Lucius realized in that moment he was losing her. He went outside in search of Wolfe, trying to spare the kitten and redeem himself, but it was useless. He had taken yet another life at Voldemort's command, and for almost the first time he regretted it.

******************************************************************

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was confused. His Uncle Vernon was the Muggliest Muggle in the world, and his rallying cry was 'to be normal.' Now here were scandalously dressed, even more scandalously behaving Muggles, all happily rejoicing at the idea of being downright strange. Something in the way he had been brought up was not correct. In the blue satin bustier, however, Ginny looked painfully sexy, and Harry had to struggle to think of Dudley, Uncle Vernon, Quidditch, anything, to make it possible to get out of there without embarrassment.

Ginny Weasley, the tragic heroine of the Tom Riddle diary scandal, was amazed. No wonder her dad thought Muggles were fascinating! They seemed so stiff and sedate at Harrod's, and then here they flaunted wild outbursts of hetero-, homo- and just plain _odd_ sexuality. The lesbian scene with Magenta and Columbia seemed to over-fascinate her brother Ron, and Harry looked damn good in his bustier. It was green and matched his eyes nicely. Damn 'no shagging on field trips' rule! 

Severus Snape, the Greasy Git and Bat King of Slytherin, was rather more than Not Pleased by now. Cassandra had splintered school rules into tiny bits, and Dumbledore was likely to have _his_ neck for it.

And then something genuinely horrible happened. Two transvestites, one with a long, striped sex-kitten tail and one with a very familiar beard, threw some toast at the screen.

Snape was certain he would never sleep again.

********************************************************************* 

The next evening after the field trip, dancing lessons began.

"Alright, now put your right hand on my shoulder...good. Now just follow me."

"I know how todo_ this_ part, Severus," Hermione said softly. "And shouldn't we wait until the Tylers get here?"

"I wanted to get in at least one dance with you alone." Deftly, the normally snarky professor spun his secret darling around as they danced. The music was slow enough to be romantic, but fast enough to be intriguing, and it had a kind of classical bent despite the clear presence of electric guitars. It was painfully obvious Cass had selected it, as Severus preferred wizarding composers almost by default. "By the way, darling?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry about taking off house points the other day. I had been watching you work rather intently and I had to explain doing that somehow."

"That's alright. Professor McGonagall gave me twice that amount for correct homework. And I don't mind you watching me intently."

"I would assume," Severus remarked dryly.

"You're the teacher. I'm supposed to be watching you."

"Yes, but do you have to smile that way?"

"What way?" Hermione asked with an innocently content look.

"You're doing it now." Severus kissed her. "I like it, but I really do wonder what you're thinking when you look at me that way."

"Besides wondering about you in a bustier? I know what you look like in one now."

"Did you have a hand in that debacle?" Severus asked. 

"Lord, no. I didn't enjoy that getup they had me in at all."

"I did."

"Is that why you were watching me intently?"

"Eak!"

"What the bloody -?" Severus asked, looking at his feet. The little striped kitten looked up at him. "Oh, holy shit! Minerva's gone and reproduced!"

"It's a kitten." Hermione pointed out, picking it up and petting it. "Hello."

"It's a girl kitten," John Tyler announced proudly. "Lucius Malfoy fed her to me."

The oddity of that statement was pointed.

"Fed her to you?" Hermione asked almost angrily, even as the kitten began to purr. "Were you a wolf?"

"Yep," John said, scratching the kitten's ears. "I didn't eat her, though."

"Obviously," Severus remarked sarcastically. "Why did you bring it here?"

"Her, not it," Hermione chastised. "What's the kitten's name?"

"I've been calling her Shannon. It means 'little wise one.' She looked sort of wise."

"Are you going to keep her?"

"I don't know. Higgins might not like a cat." Professor Henry Higgins was John's parents' dog, a sizeable collie with unnatural intelligence. To him, a little cat might be construed as lunch. "And she's awful small. I think she still needs a mama cat, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, to feed her?" Hermione smiled. "There's something called kitty milk replacement you can use. I bet Filch might have a bit."

"Let's go ask him. I'll go with you in case he gets nasty." 

Hermione looked at the small kitten, who was purring and licking oddly at her shirt.

"We'd better not take her. Mrs. Norris might get nasty too."

And so Severus was left, sitting on the sofa, with a very tiny striped kitten licking and sucking at the arm of his robes. Hermione explained it as something little cats did when they had been weaned too early and needed affection from humans.

The dancing lessons would have to wait.

***************************************************************** 

It was an easy thing to do, when you knew what you were doing, and Maria intended to know how. With a pass to the restricted section from Professor Tyler, (who would write one for just about anyone that asked if they were a girl,) she had gotten nearly every erotic manual available to the wizarding world and started taking notes. She was learning how to seduce any man on earth, but she had a specific one in mind. 

There was only one man she had ever known, besides stern Professor Snape and kind Headmaster Dumbledore, who had ever treated her nicely, as a person and not as a kind of sex object. She loved him already, but how on earth could a student convince a teacher of that? 

Moreover, she knew she would be married to Milton the day after she graduated, to start work on producing a Blodgett heir. The Catesbys were an old family, but to guarantee their survival, they had let their oldest son a generation ago marry a Blodgett. It was now Maria's fate to repay the debt. The most she could hope for was a brief affair before a life of nothingness. Even that was better than living as her poor mother had.

Too bad when Slytherins fell for Gryffindors.

A/N: This chapter is for Altagracia and my littlest kitten, Shannon Michelle who is named after my editor and actually enjoys licking at my shirt, for which talent my brother's friends have dubbed her the Dread Armpit Vampire Kitten of Death.


	20. Worse Than Hate

Chapter Twenty-One: Worse Than Hate

"There is a way to do it," Lucius said triumphantly, looking up from his books to Wormtail.

"How? The girl's too old."

"Not do it to the girl personally." The blond man gazed at a gothic picture in the book, which showed a newborn baby staring at its mother with glowing eyes. Wormtail came over and looked at it.

"How do you mean, Lucius?"

"You know what I mean," the aristocrat snapped, irritatedly shutting the book. "The girl is old enough to bear children. We can mate her with a Death Eater of sufficient power and then seize the child for our own purposes."

Wormtail seemed to think for a moment.

"If we wish to breed an heir, why use the Mudblood at all?"

"Because she is Potter's friend and his own weak link. He cannot kill a child of hers."

"Oh."

"Get me a drink, you lout. The Revel is to be at ten."

Mumbling softly, Wormtail shuffled off. Lucius sank into a brown leather chair, feeling more exhausted than he had in years. A moment later, someone handed him a full brandy glass.

"Been reading hard, m'love?" Narcissa asked. Relief flooded through Lucius like liquor before he even sipped the drink.

"How is it you know when I want you most?" he asked, looking at the woman who was so close and still so distant. She smiled.

"Practice. I know you well." Interestedly, she picked up the book from her husband's hand and opened it to where he'd been holding his finger. Lucius frowned, but did not object.

"Ghastly picture, eh?"

"Moderately horrible, yes." Narcissa frowned in thought and handed it back to him. "Why all this interest in Filius Replicatus?"

"It's for the Dark Lord."

"I doubted it was for your own interest, Lucius," she replied sarcastically.

"You sound like Severus."

"I should." The old stab of jealousy burned in Lucius' heart again. "I was just reading his latest letter about our son."

"And what is our boy up to?" Lucius asked half-heartedly.

"Getting detentions and making a mockery of his house. There's a new teacher who feels pure blood is tantamount to Nazism; makes Slytherins' lives a hell."

"Sounds like another McGonagall."

"Worse." Narcissa took a sip of her husband's drink. "An American."

"Oh. That Tyler. I wondered when we'd get a complaint from him."

"It also seems she's married to a dangerous werewolf…why is our son so scared of them? You would really think he could grow some balls." 

"I think it was the stories I read to him, love, or perhaps just a phobia. You know my own loathing for roaches."

"And I wonder why you do. Have you ever seen one in your patrician life?"

"I saw Skeeter in her Animagus form and that was bad enough."

"Chicken. Got a light?" Narcissa had gotten a cigar from the box on her husband's desk and looked earnestly about to smoke the thing. Lucius handed her his wand absently, as it was a habit she had acquired well over twenty years ago and he had long since given up protesting. 

"Hand me one, too. It's been an awful day." Narcissa complied, lighting it from her own. "Pettigrew still has his head buried in an uncomfortable place for me."

"You'd better get your arse used to people's heads. If the Dark Lord finally beats that little Gryffindor down, you'll have a sphincter with crowds like King's Cross Station." Lucius gave his wife a startled look. "Oh, _what_? A girl can't have a good cuss every now and then?"

Quite abruptly, Lucius laughed. He loved her so.

"You're still the same uncomplicated girl, aren't you?"

"Or so I would have you believe," Narcissa smiled slyly. 

"Come away with me after the Revel tonight," Lucius asked suddenly. "We won't be needed, you need a break from this."

Narcissa laughed, a short, frozen sound in the warm library.

"_After_ the Dark Revel, Lucius? And I need a break from what, pretending Voldemort doesn't keep you as his own house-elf?" She stared Lucius down, hatred dripping from her every word. For the first time, she had spoken out about his activities. Lucius realized suddenly the reason for her distance. He stood up and looked at the woman he still needed so, but dared not tell.

"You hate me," he accused softly, more in sadness than in anger.

"I pity you, Lucius, and believe me, that's far worse." Narcissa turned on her heel and left the library so he wouldn't see her cry.

Silently, Lucius stubbed out the cigars and flopped unaristocratically back into the chair. A few moments passed, and slowly he began to sneer. He began to curse Muggle-lovers and poor wizards aloud. He leapt up and began to throw the books about, swearing his hatred of anything that got in his way.

After all, a Malfoy man couldn't _cry_.

****************************************************************** 

"And so, in conclusion, American Muggles are self-destructive creatures who will bring about their own end within the century." Draco folded his essay and placed it on Professor Tyler's desk before taking his seat, smirking.

"Nice view on the civil rights movement, dragon-boy. I'll give the thing full marks." There wasn't much else Cass could do, so Malfoy sneered at the Gryffindors, who returned the look with loathing of their own. "However, you neglected to write out your bibliography, so you have detention tonight with me."

Malfoy shrugged and seemed his usual self for a moment, until his gaze fell on the calendar and his face paled.

"No, Professor, I'll be happy to lose housepoints."

"I don't see why Slytherin should suffer for your sloppiness," Cass replied mildly. "Detention with me, at eight o'clock. Shall I write it down for you?"

"Please, Professor, I really do apologize."

"For what? All you did was make a mistake, and all it is is a detention. I swear I'm not as strict as Professor Snape. You can read the telescope directions out to me."

"Telescope directions?" Malfoy gasped.

"Yes. Mars is especially bright tonight and I hoped to take a few pictures of Muggle satellites from the Astronomy Tower. Don't be frightened, my husband will go with us."

"But- but professor! It's a full moon tonight!"

The Gryffindors could not resist. Starting with Harry and Ron, they all cracked up laughing.

"Afraid you're gonna get eaten, eh?" Seamus joked.

"Want to borrow some sauce for him, Professor Cass?" Parvati spoke with uncharacteristic glee.

With a very McGonagall-esque gesture, Cass made the class be silent.

"Now, students. Lycanthropy is a very serious condition." They were suitably awed; as it was evident she was beginning a lecture. "However, as anyone who has read _'Hairy Body, Human Heart' _will understand, werewolves are not malevolent. Now, since Hermione is the only one looking at the others as if they were ignorant snails for not reading it, I will inform you of a few basic facts.

"Number one, werewolves do not wish to cause any harm, unless someone injures their family or their friends somehow. Imagine the loyalty of a dog. What dog would not rip a burglar's arm off if he attacked their human pets? Werewolves have an estimated three times that loyalty, which in basic terms means to make friends with one is good, and to get on one's friends' bad side is very bad indeed."

Cass was getting progressively angrier as her speech wore on. The Gryffindors even began to look a little scared.

"Number two, werewolves know that they are disliked. Mr. Malfoy's essay brought up the Brown vs. Board of Education case, in which it was proven that segregation makes people feel inferior. All of those crude jokes about werewolves in heat and 'a werewolf goes into a bar' have that same effect. What it basically amounts to is humans being bigots, which for some peculiar reason aggravates Americans, Pittsburghers especially. I have many friends and family members who are werewolves, and I have seen bigoted, worthless wizards attack and try to lynch them, just for being different." The class was silent and Cass glared at them. "You clearly don't know what in the hell that is because you're English. There are people, wizards included, who like to take people and string them up. They hang them, slowly, and often burn them to death to add to the spectacle. Sometimes they try to crucify them for extra fun. My own-" Cass's voice broke and she turned her back on the class as if she couldn't manage to say any more. Then someone swallowed a little too loudly and she spun around.

"As a matter of fact, there is another little fact about werewolves I have for you before you go. Werewolves who are born into lycanthropy have a star on their left forearms. Werewolves who are bitten do not. That is how biased, undeserving, worthless wrecks like those I have met in America find their victims. I couldn't live with that. So while my best friend was in the hospital, I went and got _this _done!" Cass tore the sleeve off her robes at the elbow, revealing a black star identical to John's, burned into her pale flesh like a brand. She held her scarred arm directly in Malfoy's face. "That is what affection and loyalty means, students. I should perhaps tell you that when I burned this star onto my arm, I hadn't been bitten yet. So if some of you feel loyal enough to get a Dark Mark burned into yours, maybe you should think a bit about bigotry as well!"

And with that, she stormed out, slamming the door to her office so hard several shelves had books fall to the floor. Dumbfounded, the students looked at each other for a few moments and then left the room en masse. Outside, they began to talk.

"I wonder what happened to her best friend," Pansy Parkington wondered.

"I hope they didn't die or something. She seemed really furious," Lavender concurred. "She's married to a werewolf now."

"I don't blame her being angry at us," Harry said quietly. Ron looked at him, each thinking of the same former teacher, deposed by bigotry. 

"I wonder if anyone ever tried to do that to Professor Lupin," Blaise Zabini said quietly. "I don't think I like the whole idea of that. With the Wolfsbane potion, werewolves aren't even dangerous anymore."

"We used to lock ourselves up in my parents' day," a voice said calmly. "So, did Cassie dismiss you lot early?"

It was John Tyler, wearing a Slytherin t-shirt that showed his star openly. 

"No, sir, she sort of…"

John smiled.

"Ah. Say no more. I've seen her temper, too. Which one of you insulted the Pittsburgh hockey team?"

"Sir, it was about werewolves, actually, -and lynching," Hermione explained. John sighed and looked a bit less calm.

"Oh. Anyone want an explanation of that story? Cassie has a real knack for still being pissed at those dumb rednecks." Most of the class nodded, even the Slytherins. "Okay, here's what happened. My three brothers and I took a trip down to the Muggle theme parks in Florida. We took our girl cousins with us, and I invited Cassie along, because we were just best friends then and I wanted her to get to know my family. Anyway, while we were in one of the Southern states, we ran into a group of specist wizards."

"Specist?" Malfoy asked.

"Sort of like racists, except they hate werewolves and all sorts of part-humans." John cracked his knuckles and sat cross-legged on the floor, as did the class. "They really didn't want to see any werewolves passing through their territory, especially with pretty witches, so they tried to take Cassie and the other three girls away. Well, my brothers and I didn't like that idea. There was a fight, and since there were more of them than us, we almost got lynched."

"Who stopped it?" Ron asked.

"The Muggle cops came along. My brother Ringo had a cellular phone, sort of a Muggle talking thing, and one of the cousins used it to call for help. We weren't hurt too bad, but it really bothered Cass. If Ringo and George hadn't stopped her, she would most likely have hunted the rednecks down and gutted them like cod."

"So that's when she tattooed her arm?" Blaise asked.

"Naw, that was while I was in the hospital with Paul. We had some minor burns and needed a few stitches. I've gotten worse injuries from Quidditch, but Cassie was still sorta pissed. And it's not a tattoo. It's a potion brand. Works the same way one of those Dark Marks might, which is just how a wolf-born's star works. She just hooked herself up to every werewolf's child in the world, sticking her arm like that. But that's Cass." John smiled with a little shrug, totally used to her passionate outbursts. "So, what do you think of her class so far?"

Somehow, the class was more dumbstruck by his casualness than they had been by Cass's outburst.

"Um, sir? If you don't mind my asking, what exactly did they try to do to you and your brothers?"

"Lynch us. They tied Paul an' me to trees and tried to set us on fire, beat all of us with whips, and they shot George with what they thought was a silver bullet, but it turned out to be just plated, not to mention they missed." John pulled his collar aside a bit amiably. "I have a little scar."

"But don't you hate them now?" Malfoy asked, frowning in abject confusion. The handsome werewolf grinned.

"I call 'em specist rednecks. That's what they are, and most intelligent people pity them. Naw, I can't hate people like that. They're too stupid and I'm too lazy."

Cass emerged from the classroom just then, looking as if she had just washed quite a number of tears off her face, considering the long bangs of her hair were wet. She looked startled.

"What's going on out here?"

"Your class just had some questions for me, love. Is there still time for a lesson on American soda now?" John held up two bright red boxes of Coca-Cola, at which almost the whole class gasped. "What?"

"How can you afford that?" Millicent Bulstrode gasped.

"What? They're two-ninety-nine apiece."

"Coke is a delicacy to English wizards, dear," Cass explained. "Really hard for them to get and all."

"Oh. Well, let's drink 'em then." John tore open the first box and began to hand the Cokes around. The Slytherins especially were awed. When every student had one, he waited expectantly for the familiar crack-and-fizz. "What now?"

There was a sheepish mumble among the students, except for the few Muggle-borns, who were stifling giggles.

"We –er, don't know how to open them," Maria Catesby admitted.

************************************************************* 

A/N: Three cheers for soda, the nectar of the more interesting gods! I'll try to update soon. –J. McN.


	21. Busted

A/N: I realize that I accidentally named the last chapter 21 when it was 20. Don't worry, there is no mysterious 'lost chapter,' I just counted wrong. Here you go.

Chapter Twenty-One: Busted

"Oh, my God," James Alcott gasped, looking at a folded piece of paper that had come from the university. Tears began to stream down his face.

"What is it?" Peter Granger asked.

"Cassie's blood type. She's AB positive."

"Oh?"

"Her mother was A negative and so am I." The professor suddenly looked like an old man. "She isn't mine."

"Oh, sure she is, Jamie!" his friend exclaimed. "So what if her genes don't match a bit? You raised her, didn't you?"

"Yes…like she was my own. When I wondered why…" James gulped an entire glass of scotch down. "There's never been any magic in either of our families. I couldn't imagine why my Cassie was a witch. Now I really do have to wonder."

"Was your wife…unfaithful, did you think?"

"Antigone? No, never. She was attacked once, though, shortly after we married."

"Then Cassandra's yours, James. That bastard has no right to her."

"I can see the logic in that, Pete, but it still hurts like hell. I always thought she looked like me."

"Well…maybe it's the expressions. Kids get their faces from their parents, you know." Peter sighed, hurting for his friend. "Are you going to tell her?"

"I don't know. She'll want to find out who he is, and then probably hunt him down…I don't even think John could stop her doing that."

"I noticed she's brave. That can only be taught, I think."

"Her mother was brave," James whispered softly.

*****************************************************

"I have to go _where?"_ Cass asked her superior in horror.

"Azkaban shouldn't be too hard for an Auror of your reputation to handle," Mad-Eye Moody remarked laconically. "If a Dementor charges you, which I doubt it will, simply use 'expecto patronum' and run like hell."

"Can't we bring the Lestranges _out_ for me to talk to them?"

"Too much of a risk. There's a leak in Ministry security and if anyone heard prisoners were getting furloughed, a rescue mission would be mounted by the Dark."

"Damn it all, can't you English learn the value of a good clandestine system yet?" Cass swore. "Even our _Muggles_ are better spies!"

"I'm not disagreeing," Mad-Eye said calmly, almost ignoring the hysterical female's temper fit. "If it makes you feel any better, you will have a co-agent."

"John? No, don't make him go in there!"

"Severus Snape, actually. They'll listen to him if nobody else. I only hope their minds aren't too rotted through for them to be of use."

"Bit cold of you, eh, Moody?" Cass accused. "If they aren't too crazy to help us out, they're drek?"

"Drek?"

"It's the Yiddish word for shit, Alastor," Albus Dumbledore clarified, appearing suddenly from the fireplace. "Anyone care for some Peeps?" The bearded wizard popped a marshmallow chick into his mouth with a grin. Cass stared.

"You do realize the kids would die of shock if they heard _you_ say 'shit'."

"Precisely why I don't say it in front of them."

"Albus, did Snape agree?" Mad-Eye asked.

"Yes. He's preparing to leave tomorrow evening."

"Alastor!" Cass stood up and pounded on Mad-Eye's desk. "You can't send Severus Snape!"

"You seemed fine with it a moment ago."

"The dementors'll charge him down!"

"Cassandra, Severus is perfectly capable of self-defense," Albus pointed out. 

"And it isn't as if he has a family or a mate as you do, Mrs. Tyler," Moody added. "Severus Snape has said often that he has nothing to fear in dying for the Cause."

"Well, I'm not going to be a party to his death, you git!" 

"Cassandra, why this sudden fear for Severus?" Dumbledore asked, looking at her with stern blue eyes that seemed able to see her soul. Cass panicked and began to improvise.

"Because Severus is too …valuable. We can't lose him this early in the war! It would be like killing your queen in chess on the second move."

"But Smut Goddess can perform his duties already," Moody pointed out, using the code pseudonym for their mysterious other source. Cass knew he meant Narcissa Malfoy and tried again.

"Because his… students love him?"

"Cassandra, that is so far from the truth I doubt if they speak the same language," Moody said disdainfully. "I heard them talking. They hate his class."

"But Severus can't go into Azkaban! If he dies it's break Her-" Cass realized what she was saying and bit the name off, "-heart."

The two men looked at the young auror in surprise. Dumbledore smiled.

"So Severus has a romantic interest at last? How astonishing. Whom is the lucky girl?"

"Er…"

"Please, enlighten us, Mrs. Tyler," Moody asked suspiciously. He doubted even a drunk nymphomaniac dryad in heat would find Severus Snape attractive.

"Er, no…I- I'm not supposed to say." Cass grinned haplessly, hoping they would leave it at that.

"And why not?" Dumbledore asked.

"Because…" Cass groped for a reason. "She's not supposed to fancy him at all." Well, that was true at least. Snape was going to be so pissed!

"Ah. Is it a married woman, perhaps?" Moody asked. 

"Heavens, no! She's just…er, a Gryffindor. It wouldn't look good to the Slytherin students."

"Another professor, perhaps?" Albus asked, smiling. "I must admit, I'm quite intrigued."

"And well you should be!" Cass said suddenly. "I mean, it's really you who got them together, after all. Well done."

"_I_ got them together?"

"Why, you were Pickering to Snape's Higgins!" Cass exclaimed, grinning broadly and hoping she didn't screw things up any worse. "I wouldn't be surprised if they married and named you godfather to a son!"

"So Albus made Severus work with his current love interest?" Moody asked.

"Precisely, and now they adore each other so, I don't think it's really fair to worry her that way. Why don't I go alone into Azkaban? It would likely be impressive enough to convince them to join our side. Anyone want a soda, what?"

She said all of this _extremely_ fast.

"Er…no, Mrs. Tyler, I'm afraid we will need at least two agents for the Azkaban mission. Your compassion, however, is very kind." Moody gave her what may have been either a smile or a frown, it being hard to tell on his scarry face. Albus Dumbledore, however, was still smiling with a mind-reading stare.

"So, shall we be seeing them together at the dance tonight?" 

"I don't know…with their schedules I don't think it's likely," Cass shrugged, still faintly pale with nerves. "But if I see the both of them I'll tell them you say hi."

"Do that," Moody said coldly. "I trust you have to prepare to chaperone the dance at Hogwarts tonight?"

"Er, yeah. Talk to you guys later." She stepped into the fireplace and Floo powdered back to the Potions room. "Gaw," she gasped to herself. "That was close."

"Wasn't it?" Dumbledore asked from directly behind her. She jumped. "I usually don't like to travel on the tail of somebody else like that, as it does tend to startle them."

"Rather," Cass gasped, glancing about the fortunately empty room. "Anything you needed?"

"Just another clue, perhaps. I'm sure you can understand my concern for Severus."

"Oh, don't worry, she's quite nice…"

"Professor Cass!" Ron Weasley called, racing into the room with his dress robes askew. "Have you seen Hermione anywhere?"

"No, why?"

"Parvati set herself on fire in Divination today…I need to find another date."

"Oh, heavens. I'm sorry, Ron…"

There was a sound remarkably like girlish laughter coming from behind a cabinet. Cass looked surprised and shook her fist.

"Out, Peeves!"

"Peeves doesn't sound like that, Professor," Ron said.

There was another laugh a moment later, but deeper and decidedly masculine. 

"Does Nearly Headless Nick have a date?" Cass wondered aloud, knowing full well whose laugh it was. "Scandalous. We should leave."

The potions cabinet swung out from the wall and two figures in pajamas emerged.

"Really, Severus, that was wonderful-" Hermione saw Ron, Cass and Dumbledore and froze. "Holy shit."

Ron was frozen, jaw nearly resting on his toes with shock. Dumbledore smiled suddenly and turned back to Cass.

"Pickering, eh? How remarkable."

"Ronald?" Snape asked, trying to keep the Weasley boy from swallowing a bug. "Are you –alright?"

Ron didn't move and Hermione clung a little tighter to Severus in case a fight was coming. Absently, Snape kissed her on the forehead and Ron's eyes bulged.

"Uh-oh," Cass said.

But there was no tirade from Ron. He simply passed out right then and there with a thump.


	22. Explanations

Chapter Twenty-Two: Explanations

"So I added the dragon's blood and it exploded, all over Miss Granger's and my clothes..."

"And Professor Snape lent me some of his pajamas because they were the only thing that sort of fit..."

"She transfigured them a bit smaller and made them pink as a joke. That's what I was laughing at..."

"Don't you think we should wake Ron up?" Hermione asked finally. Cass grinned and shook her head.

"Get changed first. He's going to need a guidance counselor when he wakes up."

"A what?" Snape asked.

"Guidance counselor. You know, the person who talks with kids and basically tells them not to shoot themselves."

"We don't have one here," Dumbledore explained. "Generally the don't shoot yourself lectures come from the Heads of House."

"Oh." Cass glanced at Professor Snape. "How many Slytherins are there now?"

"Unnnh," Ron groaned, getting up and supporting himself on his elbows. "Wha' happened?"

"Me and 'Mione played a trick on you," Cass explained. "I transfigured her an' Sevvy's clothes to give you a fright."

"Professor!" Dumbledore protested. "That was very unkind."

"That...was...hilarious!" Ron started cracking up. "Hermione, did she put you up to this? Fred and George will be so impressed!"

"Mr. Weasley, this is highly inappropriate," Snape growled. 

"I'm sorry, sir, but...is that a snake on your pajamas?" Ron began to laugh even harder at the green double 'S' monogram. "Oh...I'm sorry, that was really a scary one. You and Hermione...that'd be _weird_."

"Very," Dumbledore fixed his eyes on Cass. The werewolf paled. "Mr. Weasley, if you would be so kind as to go and get one of Miss Granger's school uniforms? Your sister knows the password for the females' rooms."

"Of course, sir. I'll be right back, Hermione." Ron brushed himself off and left, still grinning with mirth.

"Now, Severus, Hermione, Cassandra," Dumbledore began, closing the door and sitting down at one of the classroom tables. "Why don't the three of you explain this properly?"

"It's complicated and really their issue," Cass remarked. "So why don't I go and get drinks for the lot of us?" She headed for the door, only to be caught by the scruff of the neck and lifted up, puppylike. "Put me _down_, Sevvy!"

"I had heard werewolves could be picked up that way," Dumbledore observed with some amusement. "Does it hurt?"

"No, but it's _really_ undignified!" Cass tried to kick Severus in the shins and was dropped unceremoniously on the floor for her trouble. _"Damn!"_

"Albus, you've known me for most of my life. Would I do anything improper?" Snape asked calmly.

"Apart from dropping fellow faculty like hot potatoes, no," Dumbledore replied. "The pajamas, I assume, were an honest accident?"

"Yes, sir, like we told you," Hermione apologized. "It was my fault the potion even exploded."

"It was not. I added too much arrowroot," Snape argued.

"But the dragons' blood was the catalyst-"

"And _I_ told you to add five drops!"

"But _I_ cut up the arrowroot!"

_"Children!"_ Dumbledore chastised gently. "I'm certain it was the hand of Fate. Now, what exactly was Cassandra trying not to tell me about earlier?"

"I can't be certain, Headmaster, we weren't there," Hermione explained.

"Something about her not wanting to let Severus enter Azkaban?" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled and Hermione went ashen.

"_No!_ Why would anyone want to send him there! I won't let you!"

Cass hit herself in the forehead with disgust.

"Ah, just as I expected," Dumbledore said quietly. There was a long silence as the old man popped another lemon drop into his mouth and appeared to think. Suddenly he smiled. "I do believe that was the funniest metaphor I've heard in quite awhile, Cassandra. I was Colonel Pickering in this, wasn't I?" Hermione and Severus managed to look horribly guilty. "Oh, don't look so maudlin, Severus, it never suited you. Naturally I cannot approve of what those pajamas would imply, but as long as the two of you can find some way to keep this a secret and don't overstep the bounds of –well, er, morality, I don't see what's wrong with seeing each other secretly."

There was another long silence, and then a sigh of relief.

"So you're not going to kill me, Sev?" Cass asked.

"_He_ might not," Hermione pointed out. 

"Really, though, that little outburst to protect him, that was rather sweet," Cass observed dryly. "Blow your cover like the wind, why don't you?"

"You only slipped up in front of the Headmaster!" Hermione retorted. "Why didn't you just let Rita Skeeter know?"

"Who?" 

"Ghastly female gossip reporter. Hedda Hopper without the charm," Dumbledore explained. "And I don't know if I blame Cassandra for letting this tidbit slip. It really is kind of amusing, the dark, brooding Potions Master falling head-over-heels for the shy bookworm."

"Really! It's so poetic, kind of like 'Sweeney Todd' without dead people or meat pies," Cass agreed. 

"No, it's definitely more like Shaw's 'Pygmalion.' I rather like the idea of being Pickering. Shall we find some tweed for Severus?"

"Oh, we must! And fancy, him passing her off as a blueblood duchess at the next Dark Revel! Peter Pettigrew as Zoltan Carpathy!"

"That's rich! And Narcissa as the fancy royal what's-her-name." Cass and Dumbledore were getting out of hand when they finally heard Severus clearing his throat for attention. "Heavens, that sounds like a bad cold, Severus. Fancy a lemon drop?"

"This is intolerable, Albus! You've just caught your most disappointing protégé involved with Minerva's prize student!"

"And it's _hilarious_. My journal's going to have a fun chapter," Cass smiled cheekily.

"Well, were you hoping I would be upset, Severus?" Dumbledore stood up. "I mean, if you are as disappointing as you say, surely you aren't capable of feelings for another, even if she clearly is the only girl you've ever really cared about this way. I'd better make the two of you separate, hadn't I?"

Snape looked guilty and shook his head pleadingly. Dumbledore looked at Hermione quizzically.

"And it's obvious you care more for looks and Gryffindor heroism, Miss Granger. Surely a witch of your intellect and wit can't want her mind's equal for a companion. Silly, really, to think the two of you…" Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling. "Come, now, it's certainly not the first time teachers and students have fancied each other. I'm living proof."

********************************************************************** 

"He _what?"_ Minerva McGonagall was somewhat pissed. "That filthy, loathsome snake of a Slytherin! I'll have his balls for Snitch practice!"

"It's not like they're involved physically, Minerva. It's as innocent as the third years at school dances."

"Except that third years aren't twenty-odd years each other's senior!"

"Darling, calm down. I'm twenty years yours at least."

"But we were completely different! We were at least from the same House, and I was a seventh-year before I even thought of you that way."

"How direly disappointing. I thought of you that way in sixth."

"Well, alright, maybe it was third, but you had a lovely beard. Severus is just so…"

"Slytherinish?"

"I was going to say homely, but yes."

"Well, look at everyone she's fancied so far. Viktor Krum was certainly unnattractive by most standards."

"But they were just friends. He needed help with English and she was learning Quidditch terms to surprise Weasley and Potter."

"Severus isn't too bad, when he remembers to wash his hair."

"A little sun wouldn't kill him."

"No, and I've figured out a way to get him out of the dungeons occasionally. I've been thinking of asking him to referee a faculty Quidditch game. Hooch, bless her soul, wants to Beat for Hufflepuff."

"And shall I Chase?" Minerva asked, the old slightly insane gleam that only mentioning Quidditch brought coming back to her eye. "You know as well as I that Remus was a superb Keeper, except he never tried out. And Sprout won't be too hard to flatten at all-!"

"Darling, I think you may be in charge of the Gryffindor faculty team on one condition."

"What?" Minerva asked absently, writing a line-up in her head. 

"Let Severus and Miss Granger alone."

_"What?"_

"She's given him something to live for and he's giving her the intellectual company she needs. Even if it fades back into friendship, it's a good match. I trust Severus not to take advantage of her in any way."

"Why, Albus, you old yenta." Minerva kissed Albus on the cheek. "Alright, but I'd better not have to teach any bushy-haired Slytherins eleven years from now!"

"I don't think you will. I'm sure that they'll behave."

"He'd better," the animagus warned darkly.

********************************************************************** 

Cass fed the owl a bit of her sandwich and opened the letter from her dad. The Slytherins and Gryffindors were working on Muggle model airplane kits in groups of two. For the first time in recorded history, someone had to help Ginny, as she had neatly glued a wing part to her thumb. Models weren't the specialty of many of the usually bright students, but Colin Creevey was nearly done with a little B-52. Cass read the letter eagerly, as her father never failed to include news of the Penguins hockey team, which she followed avidly. The first paragraph was cheering, as Jagr had finally broken Mario Lemieux's goal record and it looked as though they might beat the Maple Leafs at last. The second paragraph was a pleasant list of her father's activities with Hermione's parents and the widowed librarian he sometimes went out with. The third paragraph was the most vile, earth-shattering news Cass had ever gotten.

She was not her father's biological daughter. 

Well, she couldn't throw a huge fit in class again. It would be the second in a day. And the letter reassured her that nothing had changed at all in how her dad felt toward her. If anything, he expected this might bring them closer. 

What a sentimental load of crap! 

It certainly explained a lot. Cass scratched her neck testily and then looked at her nails in surprise. They had gotten long again, as they always did before a full moon, trim them how she might. Her knuckles, as always, wanted to be cracked, a bad habit she had never really tried to break, and her fingers were as long and spindly as ever. Was that one of her mother's traits? Cass remembered only photographs of her mother, and her father's hands were somewhat different. 

She glanced at the mirror she always kept on her desk. The gray roots of her hair were starting to show again. Ah, well. Cass began to think. She had been blond as a child, and her hair had darkened by about age ten, but only to a mousy brown. Then at fourteen it had reddened and grown darker still, partly due to her desire to resemble her auburn-haired mother and partly due to Clairol's universal appeal to the teenage girl. She had dyed it for years, and the fact that gray or white had started at fifteen or so was merely a good excuse. John didn't mind and even found it amusing, as she had once mistakenly made it scarlet red and looked very funny for a week. Was her real father prematurely gray also? 

'Wait a second,' Cass thought abruptly. 'Why worry?' Her dad loved her, and she would always think of him as her dad. Her children would call him Grandpa and make him birthday cards. Kids found out they were adopted all the time. This was only half as shocking as that, as it was clear she was her mother's child. 

Except the facts of her conception were clear and cruel. Her mother had been attacked. Her father had explained that fact years ago, when Cass had noticed a scar on her mother's arm in a picture. It was possible, if not likely, that her biological father was magical, and given the circumstances, most probably evil or Dark.

Suddenly the present war meant a lot more to Cass. She fought hardest when it was a cause for revenge, and as if Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom weren't reason enough, this unseen stranger hurting her dad years after his wife had died gave her plenty of good, healthy hate to feed upon. She wasn't going to run to the closest female friend and cry as if it were a bad soap opera. It wasn't her style. She would simply use this data to process hatred for energy.

One could say it was a female thing.

**************************************************************** 

"Ah, Mallomar," Cass greeted the pureblooded Slytherin. "Nice to see you on time." She handed Draco some Windex and a roll of paper towels. "Could you clean the lenses on these?"

"Yes, ma'am." Draco obediently began to polish the sights on the telescopes, using the blue bottle to look through to check if they were clean.

"Er…Draco? You spray the windex on the paper towel, and then it cleans the glass."

"Oh." He squirted himself neatly in the mouth. "Gah-yuck! That stuff's disgusting!"

"It's not meant to be taken internally. Here, have a caramel." Cass handed him a Milky Way.

"Will this make my tongue swell up, ma'am?"

"Naw, it's not a Weasley thing. Bright of you to ask, though. It's from America, the Mars company to be exact. They're a division of the Hershey Corporation, which is where most of the country's chocolate comes from. That's what tomorrow's class is about." Cass thought for a second. "Don't eat too much at breakfast. We'll be tasting."

The werewolf adjusted the telescopes as Draco finished cleaning them for a few minutes. The Slytherin spoke up suddenly.

"Not to be rude, professor, but are you safe tonight?"

"Naturally. Professor Snape makes the potion for me all the time. Clever git."

"Oh. I read that it tastes quite bad."

"Wretched. Can't stand the bloody stuff." Cass grinned and turned the focus knob a bit. "The good thing is, Sevvy always makes me his best potion afterwards." Draco looked blank. "Hot chocolate. Even Dumbledore bows to him. I think he adds cinnamon."

"Oh, yeah! He makes it after Quidditch games if we win." Draco frowned. "Though with Potter, those are few and far between."

"He's pretty good, but I think his turns could use a bit of work," John Tyler observed, coming up the stairs. "You have good form yourself, reminds me of Wronski."

"You follow Quidditch? I thought you were…" Draco pondered a second. "Americans."

"And we're supposed to watch that bloody tar the Yanks play? Naw. We're the sort who'd follow soccer if we were Muggles." Cass recalled something. "English call soccer football."

"I've heard of, but never seen it played," Draco admitted. "Father doesn't like me to learn about Muggle things. Calls it a waste of time."

"I've noticed that attitude. That's why I try to make class as fun as possible –that, and it's more fun to do it that way."

"I liked the lesson on American food last week. Those biscuits were great."

"Biscuits?"

"Cookies, love," John translated, hugging her from behind and smiling at Draco. "You know, we're setting up a place for Cassie to show movies. Out at the Shrieking Shack."

Draco paled.

"The _Shrieking Shack?"_ He did not look pleased. "What about the ghosts?"

"Aren't any now. Cass drove them out with her opera records." John got a playful smack upside the head for that. "Okay, maybe it was the Rolling Stones."

"The who?"

"I have some of their records, too. I think 'Tommy' will be the next project." Draco looked really confused. "Oh, you meant 'who are the Rolling Stones'. They're a band, and so are The Who."

"Oh." The poor blond looked as though he had been kidnapped by Martians with long hair. "Like the Weird Sisters."

"Don't you love Tremlett's solo album?" Cass asked, grateful for Bill Weasley's lending her some British wizarding music. "I'm not sure about Celestina Warbeck, though, she struck me as a little too old to do rock duets. It's like Marianne Faithfull singing with Metallica –scary."

"My mother likes her stuff. She also keeps Muggle things that I'm supposed to keep mum about." Draco almost smiled. "Do you know who Captain and Tennille are?"

"Sure!" Cass grinned. She was finally breaking Draco's shell. 

"What _is_ he, a sea captain?"

"A yachtsman, I think. That, or he's just a bit eccentric."

"Do Americans have a Parliament?" Draco asked.

"Sort of. We have a Congress, which is a bit like Parliament with poles up everyone's arses." Cass gave John a look and he shrugged. "What? They do."

"Who is your Prime Minister?"

"We have a Muggle president called Bill Clinton. Randy bastard, too. The wizarding president is Bjork."

"John, that was _not_ funny!"

"Okay, Bjork's the Foreign Ambassador. The president's a man called Dennis Miller…really scruffy beard."

"I've heard of Bjork…Goyle had nightmares about her killing You-Know-Who with a rabid swan." 

"I could see that," Cass observed calmly, deciding not to call attention to Draco's looking on Voldemort's death as a bad thing. "Personally, I think we should sic Anna Nicole Smith on him. He'd be broke in a month and dead in a year." Draco didn't get the joke. "She's the Dumb Blonde Laureate over there."

The moon was rising over Cass's shoulder and suddenly she began to cough. "Okay, Draco, we're about to turn. Don't be scared. Treat us like big furry dogs. We may need help with the telescopes. Two barks mean no and one is yes, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good man. You may not want to watch if you've a fear of –errrow!" Cass's voice broke off in a wolfish howl. 

Draco couldn't take his eyes off the frightening transformation. Fur began to sprout, legs began to bend backward, hands became paws, and suddenly, there were two rather well groomed pet wolves. John, a larger, gray wolf with a silver ruff, licked his wife's cheek. Cass was smaller, reddish, and looked more like a girl. She padded over to Malfoy and sniffed at him.

"Er…Professor?"

"Arf?"

"Did that …hurt?"

Cass put her paw on her nose and then barked twice, which Malfoy could only assume meant 'Sort of.' She began to sratch at her ear with her hind leg, and Draco decided to touch her, for a scratch behind the ears. She looked like a decidedly happy wolf at that. 

"Do you like this?"

"Arf!" John came over and offered his head for a scratch as well. Draco began to smile, as the Tylers were genuinely like big, friendly dogs. Suddenly, Cass went and fetched a quill. With her mouth, she set it on its end and nosed at the parchment. It began to write.

'Well done, Draco,' it wrote. 'I'm feeling peckish. Can you ask a house-elf to bring up some steak or ham and a bowl of water, and whatever you like to eat as well? The ear scratches are quite nice.'

Draco patted the she-wolf's back and whistled with two fingers. Dobby came running and immediately stopped short. 

"Wolves?" the terrified house-elf asked. "Hungry wolves want to eat Dobby?"

"No, they just want a plate of steak or ham and a dish of water. May I have a chicken sandwich, also?"

"Dobby will get. Pet wolves?"

"Professor Tyler and her husband."

"Oh!" Dobby brightened considerably. "Professor Cass! You is a pretty wolf!"

"Er…that's Mr. Tyler, Dobby."

"Dobby sorry. May Dobby pet?" Cass licked him. "Professor Cass is a funny wolf!" Dobby happily petted the wolves, who were nearly as tall as he, for a moment and then scurried away to go get the food. "Dobby be back soon!"

The quill began to write again: 'Thanks, Draco.'


	23. Fierce Kitten

Chapter Twenty-Four: Fierce Kitten

Much to the surprise of Crabbe and Goyle, Draco Malfoy returned from detention with a fairly big grin on his normally scowly face. 

"So, what happened?" Blaise Zabini asked laconically, barely looking up from a thick, illustrated book. "Get eaten?"

"Snape makes Wolfsbane for 'em. It was great."

"So you got to pet our teacher and scratch her ears. How poetic."

"Are you sure you aren't related to our Head of House, Blaise?" Draco joked. "A bit more sarcasm and you could cut glass with that tongue of yours."

"And wouldn't you like to see the multitude uses of my tongue?" Blaise retorted with a faintly seductive and vastly unladylike gesture. 

"Slut."

"Gigolo."

"Whore."

"Cocksucker."

"Bookworm."

"Needle-dick."

"Do you go two days without turning a trick for Flint?"

"Do you get any without saying 'Stop, daddy, please'?"

Crabbe and Goyle scampered off to avoid the fight before it got nasty. A split second later Draco and Blaise cracked up.

"That last one was really good."

"Thank you. 'Bookworm's a little weak."

"Sorry. I'm a bit worn out." Draco took a seat next to her and pulled off his shirt, pointing to his sore shoulder. "Blaise-y, make it stop."

"Oh, grow some balls. What did you do to it?" Blaise began to work the knots out even as her friend explained:

"I had to _throw_ a ball two hundred and thirty-seven times."

"Right or left?" Draco shot Blaise a look or pure disgust.

"A _tennis_ ball, for Professor Tyler and her husband."

"Oh. Doggy style."

"Sweet Salazar, woman, what have you been reading?"

"Smut Goes To Rome." Blaise handed him the book, which actually bore a more discreet title. "It's got more positions than Vatsyayana even dreamed about."

"I wonder how you do that one," Draco mused, pointing out an illustration. Blaise went scarlet behind him but didn't call attention to herself. "Where did you get the thing, owl-order from Nymph Monthly?"

"Try Natasha Valryevka's Book-Of-The-Month. It's on all the best-seller lists."

"Omitting childrens', I pray?"

"Hey, why not teach 'em young?" Blaise cast a heating charm on Draco's shoulder to help the muscles relax. "Maria practically memorized the thing today. Oh, and I found the one section on contraception to be neat. Abstinence is actually dismissed as a theory for once."

"At least when the girl's well-stacked," Draco observed, turning it sideways like a centerfold. 

"Or when the guy's hung like something better than a flobberworm." Blaise cracked her knuckles absently. "Aren't the illustrations cool?"

"Certainly descriptive enough for my taste," Malfoy replied, grinning. "Is that bit true?" He pointed to a passage. Blaise read over his shoulder and nodded most emphatically. "I didn't realize girls even thought about that kind of thing."

"Just as I didn't realize the common room was appropriate for that," Professor Snape remarked dryly. "Hand it over."

Reluctantly, Draco handed Snape the book. Blaise put her arms around Draco's neck and looked petulantly at the professor.

"But Sevvy, how else can I teach Draco what I want?"

"Miss Zabini, if I did not already suspect you of brain damage, I would be displeased." Snape flipped absently through the book before going ashen. "Merlin's balls!"

"I was wondering when he'd stumble across that bit," Blaise remarked absently to Draco. "Amusing, isn't it, Professor?"

"Blaise, that is the most singularly disturbing piece of literature I have ever had the misfortune to view. Get rid of it, please."

"Oh, make it go away! Professor Snape's virgin eyes have been scarred!" Blaise took the book with sardonic glee and scampered off. Snape was just recovering himself when the musical voice was heard again. "Hey, first-years, want to see a new book?"

"Blaise!"

"Just kidding!"

"Sweet Merlin." Snape sank into a chair next to Draco. "That girl will be the death of me."

"What was it you saw?"

"Oh, nothing much, just a particularly disturbing illustration. How did your detention go?"

"Your potion worked perfectly, if that's what you mean."

"Good, good. Now get yourself up to bed before I give you one with McGonagall." Snape clearly had the beginnings of one of his infamous migraines, so Draco bloody well went. Severus waited for a few minutes in the common room before heading to bed himself.

The second edition of Cat and Wolfe Allegheny's infamous book had a new chapter- How to Seduce Professors.

************************************************************ 

Bill Weasley was easily pleased. A fat armchair, a good book, and some corned beef sandwiches did the trick. The morning had been spent arbitrating a pretty fascinating fight between Professors Tyler and Snape in the faculty lounge over some book, and as amusing as it was to see Snape in a fluffy pink party dress, reattaching the limbs of fellow staff was less than fun. At least Cass had found her other arm in the end.

It was nice just to sit and read for a while. Bill had been worrying quite a lot lately. The Malfoys' party was tomorrow and he had yet to find a good excuse to miss the thing. Balls always made him nervous, most likely because of all the dancing involved and the fact that he had always worn secondhand dress robes. There was also a problem with one of his third-year groups, in that some female students kept trying to give their late homework to his brother Ron. There were a lot of weird problems. 

At almost the third chapter of _1984_, an intriguing if somewhat depressing Muggle book, Bill heard a soft scraping noise near or about his doorknob. He looked up just in time to see the door open and close very quietly. 

"Peeves, get out. I haven't got anything to play with here."

The silence did not answer. Bill took his wand from his pocket and was just about to threaten the poltergeist again when it was snatched from his hand and placed neatly on the chair opposite, some seven feet away.

"Alright, whomever this is, I would really appreciate it if-"

Bill was silenced as whomever it was kissed him. He could feel hands on his shoulders and he groped for the invisible person's wrists. 

"Who are you?" Bill asked breathlessly, holding on to the narrow wrists as tightly as he could without causing pain. 

"Noone of importance," a thick, almost unearthly voice replied. There was strain in the last word as the creature or person –ghost maybe, tried to twist away.

It could only be a succubus. Bill tried to think of how to defend himself, but nothing came to mind. 

"Look, you," Bill held on tighter even as the succubus strained to get away. "I don't mean to be impolite, but-"

There was a soft crack beneath his fingers just before the invisible wrists slipped from his grasp. Bill's eyes went wide when he heard a soft thump, rattling the teacups on his table. Who or whatever the visitor was, succubi did not go 'thump' under usual circumstances.

"Er, miss?" Bill looked and began to feel around near the coffee table on the ground. He felt robes and followed them to a warm arm and then a chest, which was rising and falling very slowly. It was also a decidedly female chest. "Oh, dear. Ma'am, I _do_ apologize-" 

Almost as if his apology had undone a spell, the invisible person began to blur into view. It was with some surprise that Bill realized that Maria Catesby was unconscious on the floor in his rooms.

This was, to put matters bluntly, not good.

Bill's chivalrous Gryffindor side kicked in immediately and he checked her pulse. Okay. She wasn't dead. He noticed her wrist seemed to be bent at a weird angle and reasoned that she had broken it in trying to free herself. Snape would not be pleased if he knew Bill had been party to one of his students' injuries. Moreover, he would be decidedly_ less _pleased to know the circumstances, and Bill had seen enough of Severus's dueling abilities for one day. Quietly he retrieved his wand and recited a spell to mend the bone, thanking the deities for the emergency training Gringotts gave. 

Maria whimpered slightly at that moment, a heartrending sound, and Bill added a pain relieving spell to counter any effects of the mending. By now Shannon, the Armpit Vampire Kitten of Death and Bill's new pet, had come to investigate. She climbed inquisitively onto Maria's stomach and sniffed her face.

"Miaah?" the tiny kitten squeaked. It was almost as if she were asking the Slytherin what the hell happened. "Miaah." Bill removed the kitten apologetically and Shannon let out a third 'miaah' of protest. 

"Sorry, precious, but you can't climb on her."

_"Miaah!"_

The obstinate kitten climbed right back onto Maria's stomach and curled up into a ball. Before Bill could pick her up again, she began to emit a fierce growl, which would have been a lot more impressive if she had weighed a little more than a pound and a half.

"Oh, alright. Have it your way, cat." Bill sighed and Shannon, pleased at getting her own way, began to purr. "You silly thing."

Bill finally decided that the floor of a stone castle was not the place to leave an unconscious girl, so with a great deal of care, he picked her up and carried her to his own four-poster, cat and all. 

"Put me down, you sonofabitch," Maria mumbled drowsily. Bill was rather taken aback by that and laid her carefully on the bed.

"Sorry."

Maria was clearly not expecting a reply and woke up abruptly.

"Wha- where in the- _what the hell?"_

"I'm sorry, but you got knocked on the head and I just…" Bill went quite red, unsure as to how one could go about explaining things. "Hello."

"Hello." Maria sat up, blushing quite badly herself. There was an uncomfortable silence for several seconds.

"Miaah." Shannon nipped at Maria's hand as if to say 'pet me, you useless nit!' Surprised, Maria complied.

"Oh, you have a cat."

"Shannon," Bill explained, still a bit gobsmacked. Maria nervously petted the kitten and Bill nervously watched them both. It was horrible for the humans, but Shannon was having a high old time. She rolled onto her back and purred loudly.

"She likes you," Bill sighed with obvious relief. Maybe talking about the cat could delay a worse conversation. He sat down on the edge of the bed and scratched behind Shannon's ears. "Nice kitty."

"She's beautiful," Maria observed almost wistfully.

"Cass –Professor Tyler's husband gave her to me. She's a little small." 

As both humans petted her, Shannon chnged postion and began to lick and paw at Maria's shirt. It was a bit less conservative than the school uniforms, and within seconds Bill was red in the face again.

"Er…what is she doing?"

"Nursing. Baby cats do that."

"Oh." Maria was quite suddenly knocked onto her back as Shannon leaped for the headboard. The shirt being slightly moist with kitty-spit and already daringly cut, moved just enough to startle the Gryffindor professor. Bill quickly flipped Maria's robes over her decidedly compromised neckline.

"Sorry 'bout that. She –er, jumps sometimes."

"Er, yeah." Maria pulled her robes about her more closely. Another uncomfortable silence followed, but Shannon was off to pursue cat pastimes. "So…the potion wore off faster than I thought."

"Potion?"

"'One of Professor Snape's more badly-guarded Invisibility Potions,' Maria quoted in a wry imitation of the Pittsburgh accent. "I got the idea from Professor Cass."

"Ah. I was wondering why…well, you were invisible." Bill tried desperately not to blush any worse. "Miss Catesby, why exactly did-"

"Please don't call me that," Maria interjected almost angrily. "I mean…just don't." It was as if she could not bear the reminder that she was his student. Calmly, she adjusted her robes and stepped nimbly off the bed, heading for the door. 

"Maria!" Bill cried, leaping in her direction just in time to catch her when she slumped forward. "Slow down. You might have a concussion." 

"I…I feel sick." Bill helped her to the bathroom in seconds flat and easily ignored the vomiting as he held her long hair back. He handed her a cup of water a moment later.

"It's okay. Calm down, you're alright." Maria looked dizzily up at her professor, who wiped her face and forehead with a cool washcloth and picked her up easily. "Back to bed with you."

"Professor, I-"

"Shh, it's okay." Bill threw the covers aside and placed her on the sheets, adjusting the pillows beneath her head. "Invisibility potion always does that to me, too. Try to breathe slowly." Maria obeyed, still watching her professor as he gathered a few items of clothing from a wardrobe. Here, you can change into these. They won't fit, but…" 

Bill had just turned his back when the first of many tears slid down Maria's cheek.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Doing what? You're just allergic to-" Bill turned around and realized what a state the girl was in. "Oh, lord."

"You do know why I was in your rooms, don't you?" Maria asked coldly, wiping the tears brusquely from her eyes with a sleeve. Bill shook his head and shrugged. "You should be hauling me up to be expelled, not taking care of me like-" Maria couldn't restrain the tears and Bill sat down on the bed beside her. "Like I mattered."

"But Maria, you _do_ matter." Bill leaned closer and touched her hand gently. "I couldn't expel you for-"

"Acting like the worthless Slytherin slut I am?"

"Maria, don't say that! You aren't-!"

"Oh, really? You have _no_ idea what I came into your rooms for?" the girl retorted sarcastically. "Maybe you're used to ignorant girls throwing themselves at you, but I'm not used to wanting to, and you'd better not-"

Gently, Bill kissed Maria on the cheek. There was a moment of incredulous silence.

"Why…?" Maria gasped, unable even to form words from shock.

"Because you're not worthless, nor are you ignorant," Bill replied softly. "Nor are you a slut."

Maria swallowed hard.

"You aren't angry?"

"Why? You didn't do anything wrong." Bill smiled mischievously. "There are a couple of school rules about potions, but none I haven't broken worse." He handed her a soft, slightly knobbly sweater and some old pajama bottoms of his own. "Here, get changed and go to sleep. I'll be in the other room if you need me for anything." With another gentle kiss, this time on her forehead, Bill got up and headed for the door, dimming the lights as he went.

"Professor?" Maria asked, almost frightenedly.

"Call me Bill," he corrected calmly, turning back. "What is it?"

"I know this is likely somewhat inappropriate," Maria shut her eyes, blushing even as she said it, "but…would you stay with me?"

"Of course." Bill shrugged as if perfectly used to such requests. "Here, I'll turn around so you can change." Maria spoke up suddenly.

"No, I…" Bill looked at the terrified female perched on his bed questioningly. "I sort of meant…for the night."

"Oh." It was the professor's turn to look nervous. "Alright." He deftly turned his wand on himself, turning the old sweatpants and shirt into pajamas, then turned around. Maria pulled off her robes and clothes, trading them for the ones Bill had brought.

"It's er- safe to turn around," she whispered. Bill did so and smiled, lighting the fireplace with a spell. 

"I don't want you to get cold," he explained, going around the bed and climbing on top of the covers. "You want to talk about anything?" Maria shrugged, almost smiling despite clearly being as nervous as a girl could be. "I once used Invisibility Potion for a dare…ever hear of a panty raid?"

"Regrettably," Maria smiled. "Where did you have to go?"

"The most horrific room in all Hogwarts," Bill explained with a grin. "Trelawney's room." 

"What happened?"

"I discovered exactly _what_ makes that woman tick," Bill said, going a little red.

"Vibrator collection?"

"Worse. She's a Joni Mitchell freak. Posters everywhere. Joan Baez, too." Bill grinned with the memory. "The sixties just didn't end for her."

"I wonder what's with the incense though."

"Covers up the odor of other things, I guess." Bill realized that Maria had a charming laugh, even if she was almost too quiet to be heard. "You ever get any weird dares like that?"

"The mission was to seek out the jockstrap of the Boy Who Lived."

"Merciful gods! And you found what?"

"Your brother looking for Neville's toad. I chickened out in the end."

"But how'd you get around the dare?"

"Stole Lockhart's instead. It was monogrammed and _lavender, _no less."

"Sweet Merlin! I'm amazed it wasn't padded."

"Oh, it was." Maria finally smiled. "Professor Snape didn't even make us take it off the goalpost until a week had passed."

"He never did like the git."

"I don't think anybody did except Trelawney. Is she also a nymphomaniac?"

"Not for him, I don't think. She seems to have the hots for your Head of House."

"And so many of us do," Maria retorted sarcastically. "I swear, that man is sarcasm and snarky-bastard-ness personified. Tell me he's nicer at staff meetings."

"When he's not dueling Professor Tyler, yes."

"Now that's a sight I would like to see. She and her husband transfigure really well."

"Snape hexed her limbs off."

"Eww." Maria frowned in disgust. "Did you get them all back on?"

"Yeah. That spell's really more to distract than hurt." Bill noticed Maria was sitting oddly. "Does your back hurt where you fell?"

"A little, yeah."

"Here, turn around." Maria complied, and Bill slid his hands under the thick sweater. "Okay, just try to relax a bit." Gently at first, but slowly with more firmness, the professor began to work the pain out of the girl's back. "Okay if I undo this?" he asked politely, touching the strap of her bra. Maria obliged by unlacing in in the front and pulling it out through one of her sleeves after some movement within the sweater. Bill suddenly realized that wizards only had eight pints of blood, and he knew where a good seven of his were.

"That better?" Maria asked.

"Much," Bill managed to say, if in something of a strangled voice. Only a few seconds of touch later, Maria turned around and touched his cheek.

"I can't do this any more," she gasped before leaning close and kissing him again. This time Bill didn't have the heart to protest. A moment later, he stopped her by touching her arm gently.

"Maria, you're still a student."

"I know. And I can't ask you to tolerate this kind of behavior. But I am eighteen. I have been for-" Maria checked her watch, "two hours and fifteen minutes."

"Time-Turner?" Bill asked, amazed.

"No, just a February birthday and an extra year of preschool." Maria smiled wryly. "I guess I've just let this crush on you get out of control, haven't I? You could never have feelings for a kid like me."

Bill silently brushed her hair back with his hand, sighing.

"I could. You don't know how wonderful you are, do you? They've beaten you down so far you can't even see they're wrong about everything. How could I ever prove…?" Bill glanced at the door and suddenly realized what. "Maria, I _do_ have feelings for you." She looked at him suspiciously.

"You want me to feel better and be a nice little student again, don't you? You want to be my friend."

Bill answered her a split second later, but not with any words. Maria had kissed him before, but never been kissed that way. After a few moments, the professor stopped and kissed her lightly on the forehead with a hug. Maria tried to undo the top button of his shirt, but he put a hand over hers. 

"No. Not now."

"Because I'm a student?"

"Because I respect you too much. Lie down?" Maria did as her professor suggested and suddenly felt safe. Blodgett didn't matter, her mother's suicide didn't matter, she was finally safe. She looked to see what the spell looked like, only to realize there was no spell. Bill was just holding on to her. She tried not to cry, but couldn't stop the tears. "Are you alright?"

"I…I don't know why I feel this way."

"Don't worry." Bill clasped her hand in his. "I'll show you a different life from now on."

Maria just wished his promise could come true.

*************************************************************** 

"Owww!"

"Did I get your toes?" John asked, looking down to Cass's feet.

"No, it's my back. Scritch!" The female werewolf turned around to have her back scratched, humming with pleasure as John fixed it. "Darling, you do the best scritches." She kissed her husband long and well, to which performance their friends tried to pay little attention.

"Are all newlyweds like that?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know." Snape looked over her shoulder. "I think it may just be Americans. Turn." He spun her out and back, then held her close for a second as the music stopped. "I think you've got it."

"But can I pass myself off at the Malfoys' party?"

"I think so. Just avoid dancing with Fudge or you risk a pinched bottom." Severus grinned mischievously at her disgust.

"Eww. So glad you chose to warn me. _Ruin_ the moment, why don't you?" 

"Speaking of ruin the moment, what size do you wear?" John asked.

"Same as me," Cass supplied. "Dead convenient, Hermione, except your feet are smaller'n mine."

"Can I help your having big feet?"

"You know what they say about female werewolves with big feet." Everyone looked at John. "They leave larger prints."

"Well, that was a fascinating tidbit of useless information," Snape observed.

"Do wizards have anything comparable to Muggle quiz shows?" Hermione asked. 

"There's Jeopardy," Cass pointed out. "Oh, come on, you didn't think that Trebek guy was _Muggle_, did you?"

The two couples began to dance again, marred by Severus playfully pinching Hermione.

"Hey!"

"Bad Sevvy," Cass chastised, trying not to laugh.

"I felt you could use some practice just in case," Snape smiled.

"Ruin the moment, why don't you?" Hermione frowned. 

"Ah, yes. Dungeons just _drip_ sentimentality."

"If you're a nostalgic S&M freak, perhaps," Dumbledore observed, closing the door behind Professor McGonagall. The werewolves managed to go a fascinating shade of crimson at that. "Minerva and I just thought we'd stop by for a bit of dance practice as well, what with the party tomorrow and all. Do you mind?" 

"Oh, no, of course not. We were hoping you'd be able to make it," John replied. Cass, Severus and Hermione all looked at him. "What? I saw ballroom trophies in the office near Fawkes' perch and thought they'd have good ideas."

"You compete in ballroom dancing, Headmaster?" Hermione asked, astonished.

"In the seniors group now, but yes. Minerva had a special for technique in the Latins last year."

"Albus!" The professor looked a little scandalized that he had mentioned it. 

"Don't worry, Minerva, your secret's safe with us," Cass replied graciously. "At least you don't keep your fifth-grade junior hockey trophies in a case."

"You played hockey?"

"Played it? They called her the Bloodletter. Her record for lost teeth still stands."

"John, you disloyal hound!" Cass chastised. "The strange thing was that I grew them all back overnight." She grinned, revealing a full set of teeth. "People thought it was weird when I lost a total of forty-six."

"Shall we attempt a tango next?" Severus suggested. "It's the one dance Lucius nearly always plays more than twice."

"I think that's a great idea. Shall we, dear?"

*************************************************************

A/N: The next chapter may be delayed a bit, due to an unseemly development at our school. A fellow cast member is sick, which forces me, Jan the Understudy of Death, to step into the role of the infamous Velma Kelly in our high school production of 'Chicago,' just in case she's not better by Friday night. So it's off to practice lines and songs and pray the ten-day-pneumonia hurries its' ass up. Sigh.  
               -J. McN.


	24. Glass Slippers

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but I have lovely news! My editor just had her first baby, a little boy named Aidan. I was a bit nervous waiting for him and couldn't think. Now that he's here, though, we have a captive audience to read things to. Babies are 'specially good listeners. Here you go.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Glass Slippers

"You do realize how uncomfortable this is," Hermione pointed out to Cass. "I look like a…well, it isn't good."

"Look on the bright side. You don't have to bind your chest, wear a scritchy beard, or pretend to be a completely different gender than you are."

"As opposed to a _semi-_different gender?"

"Don't be a hag. It's bad enough Ron got bitch-slapped again today." Hermione looked surprised.

"When?"

"Divination. He came to class with a red mark on his cheek, so I gave him a Yank ice-pack." Cass clarified a moment later: "You put a soda bottle in the freezer, hold it where it hurts, then drink it afterward."

"How clever," Hermione observed sarcastically.

"Cripes, Sevvy's rubbing off on you! No, Hermione! Stay back! Do not go toward the light!"

"I'm sorry. I'm just nervous or something."

"'Or something' meaning your shoes hurt?"

"No, they're fine. You have bigger feet than me."

"True. I'm a little nervous, too." Cass smiled calmly, looking about as nervous as Hagrid would at the zoo. She had a nasty habit of looking positively serene lately. Hermione picked up a third donut and began to nibble it. "You like those?"

"I think they'd be better with coconut on top, but yeah."

"There are coconut donuts everywhere. The Krispy Kreme is meant to be served _au naturel_."

"Ah. Donut etiquette." Albus Dumbledore had appeared at the door. His eyes twinkled at Cass's efforts to glue the beard on realistically. "May I? I'm sort of familiar with the look." Very adeptly, the old wizard stuck the whiskers on, more in places, fewer in others, until instead of the fuzzy mess 'Flynn' had worn before, Cass had a neat, realistic-looking moustache and goatee. "It looks rather like John's, doesn't it?"

"John's? His is loads-" Cass stopped short mid-gluing and saw her husband in the mirror, framed in the doorway. He had trimmed his whiskers into looking more like a French gentleman and less like the gamekeeper. Dumbledore's new style of beard couldn't hide a decidedly unmanly blush on Cass's face. "Maybe I can lose the beard."

"I think that would be best," Albus agreed. "It's sticky and liable to attach to your glass or something later. Better to grow one's own."

"I sort of can't."

"Don't worry. Minerva showed me how to do this once." Carefully, the headmaster applied some bronzer and a quick tanning charm to Cass's face. It didn't do very much while she was dressed in her worn Penguins t-shirt, but when she pulled Severus's jacket over John's dress shirt, it made her look rather older and decidedly less like a refugee from a San Francisco drag club. 

"That was neat," Cass observed, looking herself over. "I'm not pale."

John put his arms around her from behind; making a whispery sound that was either very quiet English or Wolfish. Cass turned her head, replying in kind, and kissed him. They were a darling couple and even the first-years were used to it, but lately John had seemed more protective and affectionate than was usual even for him. Hermione tactfully turned to the other mirror and began putting on her earrings –or attempting to. They were not cooperating very well at all.

"May I?" a familiar silky voice inquired. Hermione smiled and let Severus help her. He leaned close to her ear and whispered: "You look wonderful."

"Thanks," she whispered back nervously. 

"Don't be frightened. Lucius isn't quite the terror he makes himself out to be. Just imagine him as a first-year with nightmares after Binns' class." Hermione giggled.

"Was he?"

"Narcissa insists he was. I'm not old enough to recall him except as a fifth-year or so. I do, however, remember playing Quidditch with him. If he weren't a Death Eater I think you and he would get along quite well, though he is a bit slow for you." Hermione was surprised by that and not a little flattered. "He doesn't read very much unless there's a purpose and he's rather one-sided, but we usually got along. And you'll love Narcissa. She reminds me of an older, less Yankish Cassandra with a better mind."

Hermione couldn't help wondering for the umpteenth time if Severus had been in love with Narcissa Malfoy. As if on cue, Cass came up behind the professor and grinned.

"Excepting of course that she's blond. Everybody knows that only dark-haired girls are cute." The werewolf playfully flipped at Severus's hair. "Idn't 'at right, Sevvy?"

"Actually, yes, I _have_ always found dark hair more attractive." Severus smiled wryly. "Narcissa told me years ago that blondes were all secretly afraid of being as stupid as the jokes would have you think. She gave me lots of silly advice…I was sort of a younger brother to her, I guess."

And that settled that matter. Hermione restrained a sigh of relief only as well as Cass restrained a smirk. Bill Weasley came in just then, wearing a set of very nice black dress robes.

"Sorry to sound a git, but can someone get this tie?" The redhaired professor smiled haplessly as Cass did it up for him. "Thanks. Just a bit nervous, I guess."

"Ron can't tie his own tie, either," Hermione reassured. 

"That's what we women are here for," Cass agreed. "'A woman's place is in the House and also in the Senate.'"

"Speaking of?" Snape leaned over a little and had Hermione tie his. "Thank you, dear."

"See?" Bill smiled obtusely. "I knew you weren't really as mean to your students as all that, Severus."

"Er, no, Bill. I find a bit of sharpness improves discipline."

"Yep. His being a snarky git is dead helpful, too." Cass brushed some lint off her sleeve and grinned. "Makes the kids like _me_ even more."

"At least you're married," Dumbledore pointed out. "Quite a lot of the hopeless fantasies in Sibyll's room involve dishy redhaired men." Bill went appropriately scarlet and Cass scoffed.

"Are you aware that there's now a waiting list of girls with the hots for John in case I die?"

"And an equal number of sixth-year boys for you," Hermione pointed out mischievously. "Sometimes I don't think Ron is just joking when he asks you to elope." Cass looked oddly gratified.

"How lovely! Why couldn't that have happened when I was their age?"

"Because you would give new meaning to cradle-robbing, then?" Bill asked, a momentary flicker crossing his eyes. "I overheard a nasty conversation the other night; which teachers are the most shag-worthy."

"Oh, do tell," Severus responded sarcastically, dropping a cufflink. Hermione got it and began to help him with a smile. "Has Sibyll gotten out of negative rating yet?"

"You and I head the list actually, old man," Bill remarked in a dead-on parody of Lockhart. "Together we merit the front page, at least."

"Be right back," Cass announced, going off to look for something in the other room and motioning for Hermione to follow, which she did.

"And who is winning in the female division?" John asked, as soon as she had left.

"Your wife, of course."

"Oh, good. I do so love being envied abjectly," the werewolf observed. "And who can blame them?" He sighed contentedly. "I'll give it five years and you'll have the same problem, Severus. And you'll love it when you do."

Bill was too busy doing his cufflinks to catch that remark. He looked up a second later and sniffed.

"Are those brownies I smell?"

***************************************************** 

"Mum?" 

Narcissa put down her wand and turned to greet her son.

"Draco, dear, you look wonderful. Shall I do up your tie?"

"Thank you," Draco looked quite relieved. She finished and kissed him on the cheek. Blushing, he took a square package from behind his back. "I got you something for –well, not _for_ anything, just felt you might like it."

"Thank you, dear. I got you something, too." Narcissa handed her son a little box. "Count of three?"

They both opened the gifts at once and both were astonished.

"Mum! Is this a Wronski Snitch?"

"Oh, Draco! Where on earth did you get these?"

"One of my professors helped…Mum, this is really cool."

"I had ordered it for your birthday, but it was late…do you like it?"

"Mum, it's wonderful! You like yours?"

"Draco, I couldn't _be_ more pleased. Oh, Petula Clark! I used to sing this song to you when you were a baby. And Sir Elton John!"

"Do you think father will be angry?" Draco asked, glancing at the records again. Narcissa grinned.

"What have I always taught you, dear?" Draco replied in unison. "What a Slytherin man doesn't know won't hurt him _too_ badly." Narcissa smiled and then grew a touch sterner. "I do mean that, dear. I'm very glad you've been doing well in American Muggle Studies actually. If nothing else, Muggles are useful for their arts."

"I've been thinking maybe it's wizards' job to protect Muggles instead of hurting them," Draco remarked. "In America they built Muggle preserves during the war with Grindelwald. Called them planned suburban communities."

"I've seen those. Do Muggles like them?"

"Some do. Professor Tyler says they're boring."

"What does your Professor Tyler say about the American South?" Draco cleared his throat and quoted:

"'Wonderful food, nice chivalry, and plenty of peanuts.' She doesn't like the specists, but then, she's a werewolf. Married to one, too."

"I don't much care for specists, either. Werewolves are very good cooks and even better perfumers." Narcissa put a touch of Chanel No. 5 on her wrists. "I had an owl from Kate and Sal today. Theodoric's learned to read."

"Really?" Draco's uncle Salazar was married to an American witch and had a little son. "Does he like the books I sent?"

"You can read the letter." Narcissa handed her son the parchment and smiled. "He's written you a bit of a note, too."

"'Dear Draco,'" Malfoy read aloud. "'I can read. I licked' –must mean liked- 'the book about Howgarts. Dubmildore sounds nice. Thank you for sending me them. Love, Theodoric.' His spelling needs work, but he's doing pretty well for his age."

"I remember when you learned to write. Three bottles of ink you'd spill just to get a letter done."

"Looks like Theodoric wrote his in crayon."

"Your aunt Kate is a wise woman," Narcissa replied. "And she has much nicer rugs."

"Mum? Is it true you've invited Americans?"

"Yes, your father asked two of them. A Billy Flynn and his girlfriend, from Chicago, wherever that is." Narcissa was trying her best to look reasonably airheaded. "Do me up the back, would you?" Draco obediently zipped up his mother's robes. "Why, were you wanting to practice your Yank accent?"

"No, I just sort of wondered. Why would Father invite them if he detests them so?"

"Probably trying to look good in front of Fudge. Speaking of, do you like this one?" Narcissa turned around and posed. 

"You look lovely, Mum."

"Thank you. I always did like burgundy velvet." Narcissa brushed as bit of lint off of her son's robes and he offered her his arm. 

"Shall we, then?"

"Of course!" 

****************************************************************** 

'The Malfoys' Ball is always a social event to remember. To quite a few witches' surprise, Narcissa Malfoy spent most of the evening chatting with Molly Weasley about their sons and the new teachers at Hogwarts, while her son, Draco, seemed intent on dancing politely with every woman his father introduced to him. The two American guests, Billy Flynn and a young woman called Erin, were unobtrusively charming and seemed quite at ease. Among the notables seen were Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge and Quidditch legend Ludovic Bagman, who danced athletically with the American female. Late in the evening, several male guests vanished from the room set apart for brandy and cigars, along with Flynn, and the American did not return. We can only assume that he spoke with Professor Severus Snape about the new American presence at Hogwarts and simply was not seen later. Mrs. Malfoy happily entertained her guests in a newly redecorated ballroom, and Mr. Lucius Malfoy was seen shaking hands with many prominent wizards of the day. It can be said that a good time was had by all.  
                                                                                    -Maggie Skeeter, Society'

******************************************************************* 

Hermione had never been more shaken in her life. 

Ludo Bagman's dancing aside, the night had seemed to be going well, until Cass vanished along with the other men. Narcissa assured her that the men were simply off for brandy and cigars, but when Cass was still gone after an hour, she got worried and went to seek out her friend. What she saw was not a welcome sight. 

Hermione crouched behind a thick furze-bush trimmed by the Malfoy house-elves to resemble a dragon. She could hear voices, but at first could not see anyone. Then a swirl of robes and a flash of white-blond hair revealed Lucius Malfoy, trick cane in hand.

"I asked you a _question_, yank." 

Hermione was horrified to see the wizard draw his wand and run it under the chin of his interrogation subject. Cass, whose arms were being held by Crabbe and Goyle's fathers, didn't flinch.

"Shouldn't it be 'Mudblood' or 'filthy yank'?" the American spat arrogantly. "Seems like you're losing your touch, Lucy."

"Don't make me use this," Malfoy threatened, running the wand's tip across Cass's throat again. His frighteningly calm voice reiterated his threat: "Answer me or you will feel great pain."

There was a long pause and then, to Hermione's combined horror and pride in her friend's nerve, Cass spat at Malfoy's feet.

"Bring it on, _mold_blood."

"As you wish. _Crucio!"_

Cass was apparently a bit stronger than Malfoy knew, or else there was something neither he nor Hermione knew about at work. The curse seemed to ricochet off of Cass, hitting the executioner Macnair, who immediately became a whimpering ball on the ground. Cass seemed easily as surprised as Malfoy, and, swallowing hard, she spoke, with a tremble in her voice that hadn't been there before:

"Guess that didn't work for you, eh, Lucy?"

Malfoy turned on his heel to face Macnair. He helped the enormous man to his feet, showing unexpected strength, and took the wizard's wand away. Macnair, still weak from the Cruciatus, smiled darkly and held up a fist. Malfoy nodded.

"Take your revenge."

The elder Crabbe and Goyle pulled Cass's arms tighter until she was almost off the ground. As Malfoy walked away, Macnair put on a set of what could only be brass knuckles. Hermione was stunned –she had assumed Dark wizards only used magic! There was by now a decided tremor in Cass's brave grin, and Macnair advanced threateningly, meaty fist drawn back. As horrible as it was, Hermione couldn't look away. There was a horrible sound, like a thrown fruit landing on concrete, and the young witch screamed. At the last second, however, Hermione felt a hand clamp over her mouth, muffling her cry.

"Ssh!" The hand was freezing and Hermione smelled her mother's perfume. "Severus will stop it."

But the sound came again, and again. Severus did not appear to stop it, even as Cass began to groan and Macnair to laugh. Finally she heard a blistering profanity from the person behind her, and then a green ray of curse magic struck Macnair, singeing her ear as it passed. The big man fell, seeming almost to shake the ground, and Crabbe and Goyle dropped Cass in shock. 

The werewolf didn't move.

Hermione felt the hand release her and she ran to her friend's side just as her captor ran to Macnair's. Cass was unconscious, perhaps mercifully, and a sharp kick to the executioner's head did the same. Crabbe and Goyle's fathers had run away, and Hermione wondered where Severus was. She tried everything she could think of, tapping Cass on the cheek, whispering her name sharply into her ears, but the werewolf was clearly out. The person who had cursed and then kicked Macnair leaned over her as well, drawing a bottle from within a hooded cloak. 

"Potion?" Hermione asked.

"Better." The mysterious figure popped out the cork with a thumb and threw the contents in Cass's face. The werewolf started and began to cough. "Water –very _cold_ water," the figure explained. "Severus, where the _hell_ were you?"

"Your son," Snape explained, bending over Cass. "What was it?"

"Macnair beat the shit out of her, you great twit!" The figure quickly folded Cass's arms across her chest and grasped her ankles. "Well, come _on,_ you two! Count of three!"

And without further ado, Hermione found herself supporting the midsection of her semiconscious friend. Severus had lifted her shoulders and then stopped suddenly, for both were dislocated. They carried Cass blindly, following the figure who had her ankles and seemed to know where they were headed. Finally, Hermione saw a Muggle car up ahead –a red antique Dusenberg.

"In the back, all of you. I'll drive." The mysterious wizard helped them for a moment nd then neatly jumped over the door to behind the wheel. Someone was already in the front passenger seat. Hermione had just gotten the door closed and Cass inside with her and Severus when the car started.

It was clearly _not_ a Muggle car.

"I realize this is not the time, Mum, but you drive like a psychopath." The passenger in front looked back and Hermione saw his face. It was Draco Malfoy, and the driver could only be Narcissa herself. _"Holy shit!"_

The flying car drove past a clock tower, almost taking off the minute hand.

"Shut up and let me drive," the socialite commanded. Malfoy looked in horror at his teacher and Hermione, who was still in disguise.

"What happened?"

"Your father," Snape replied tersely. 

"Unnnh," Cass groaned, looking dizzily around. 

"Cass?" Hermione asked, leaning toward her friend.

"Yeah?"

_"Is that Professor Tyler?"_

"Yes, you little twit. Shut up." Narcissa gunned the engine and made a sharp turn toward a familiar-looking forest and castle.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked.

_"Oww,"_ Cass replied, still semi-consciously. "Where's John?"

"He's alright. Don't worry," Severus reassured.

"Sevvy, 'zat you?" Cass looked dimly at Snape, who nodded. 

"How are you?" the professor asked.

"I think I'm dyin'," Cass replied. 

************************************************************** 


	25. Shock

Chapter Twenty-Five: Shock

"You're not dyin'," Narcissa retorted, sounding a little bit like a blond Hagrid. "At the worst you've got a few broken ribs. Hold on."

The Dusenberg landed on the lawn, completely wrecking quite a bit of turf and snapping the topmost branches of the Whomping Willow. Apparently Narcissa's driving was more artistic than functional. The car spun for a few seconds and came to an abrupt halt only inches from Hagrid's chicken coops.

_"What the hell?"_ The gamekeeper, roused from a sound sleep by the screeching brakes and flashing headlights, stumbled out of his cabin toward the car, his turquoise plaid pajamas fluttering. "Wha's happenin' 'ere?"

"Hagrid!" Draco leapt out of the car and gestured frantically at the back seat. "Professor Tyler's hurt!"

"No shit, Sherlock." Narcissa was also out, except she had the presence of mind to open the door for Severus. "Hagrid, you help Severus carry her. Hermione, beat feet it to the Infirmary. Draco, fix me a martini. I _hate_ driving after dark."

_"Hermione?"_ Draco looked in astonishment as the short black 1920's hairdo lengthened and fluffed, and the green eyes shimmered back to brown. "Granger, that was _you?"_

"I said move it, pretty boy!" Narcissa quite informally shoved her son and helped Hagrid lift Cass off of Severus' legs. Hermione opened her own door and started to 'beat feet it.' Draco, however, instead of fixing his mother a martini, followed her. 

"What's going on?"

"Sod off, Malfoy." Hermione ran faster up the stairs, but the blond boy only pursued faster. "Get out of my way!" she yelled as he tried to grab her arm.

"Not until you tell me what happened!" Draco pulled at Hermione's wrist just as she elbowed him in the nose and both teenagers went sprawling. Madam Pomfrey opened the door of the Hospital Wing and began to tut at them. 

"Honestly! _Sixth-years,_ fighting at all hours like little-"

"Ma'am! Professor Tyler needs your help. She got hurt somehow-" As Hagrid appeared with the injured female, Malfoy stopped trying to explain. "See?"

"Right. Just put her down over here, Hagrid. Merciful heavens, look at those ribs! Broken or I'm a monkey's aunt!" There was a flurry of activity as Professor Snape and Narcissa Malfoy, with Hagrid, tried to explain what had happened. Suddenly Hagrid looked at the sleeve of his pajamas.

"Where's she bleedin' from?" he asked innocently, looking a little ill. Madam Pomfrey glanced at the werewolf and her eyes went wide. 

"All of you, out –_now!"_ The mediwitch bundled out everyone but Narcissa, whom she caught by the arm and began barking orders to. Hermione was startled, but Draco told her to calm down.

"Mum specialized in mediwizardry. She's almost as good a nurse as Pomfrey is. _Now_ would you tell me what's going on?"

"Professor Cass got hurt," Hermione said briefly, looking around for Snape, who seemed to have disappeared.

"I noticed _that_ much. What was she doing there? And for that matter, what were _you _doing there?" Draco suddenly went ashen. 

"None of your business," Hermione retorted, but Draco was not listening. He looked in the direction Professor Snape had gone, only to be nearly knocked over by a flying mass of robes and untidy reddish-brown hair.

"Cass!" John raced by heedlessly, heading for the Hospital Wing. Snape followed, only slowly and with more sternness than Hermione was sure she liked.

"Draco?" Snape looked at his student.

"Yes, sir?"

"What you saw tonight is a matter of absolute secrecy. I want your honor as a Slytherin and as a man that you will tell noone –_especially_ not your father."

"I promise, sir." Draco glanced toward the Hospital Wing and then turned back to Snape, who was still solemn. "But sir, what happened?"

"Your father nearly had Cassandra killed," Snape replied coldly. "He's no better than Voldemort."

_"My_ father?" Draco was shocked and obstinate. "He would do no such thing!"

"And yet your professor is bleeding to death up there," Snape answered in a diabolically soft whisper. "Your father used the Cruciatus Curse and then had Macnair beat her insensible. A fine way to treat a girl old enough to be your sister."

"But…my father would never _do_ that!" Draco protested. "He didn't know!"

"All he knew was that she was American and Muggle-born. That was all he _cared_ to know." Snape was absolutely furious and Hermione knew it. "He didn't know she was only twenty-two, or that she taught his son, or even that she was expecting her first child. All that mattered was exerting power on someone weaker than himself. I certainly hope you realize what your mother meant in helping us."

"Mum's a…" Draco gasped.

"A spy," Narcissa finished, sweeping in and taking her son by the arm. "You're the right blood type. Get up here."

"Right, Mum!" To Hermione's surprise, Draco ran up ahead of the blond woman, rolling up his sleeve as he went. Narcissa almost collapsed into Severus' arms.

"Alright, Cissy?" the professor asked.

"Just dizzy from the Exsanguinus." Wizarding blood transfusions were done by spell, and evidently quite a lot of Malfoy blood had become werewolf. "Oh, sweetheart, you've singed your ear!" Narcissa turned to Hermione and brushed her hair aside, pointing her wand where the curse had grazed her. She spoke a healing charm rapidly and Hermione felt the pain subside. "Much better. I'd best go help Poppy now. Would you mind getting something from my glove compartment?" The socialite handed Hermione a set of keys. "It's the gin bottle –you can't miss it. Got to calm down a bit when we're done." With that, Narcissa headed back up to be useful. Hermione looked at Snape questioningly and he smiled. 

"She's joined AA six times. It never took." 

*********************************************************** 

There's never very much one can do to comfort a couple who have lost a child to miscarriage. Molly Weasley sent a heartfelt letter of sympathy and some cookies, while Harry offered to take care of the Tylers' owls while Cass recovered. Bill Weasley took over some of her classes, as did Snape, who prevented Sybil Trelawney by suggesting she could try to See something optimistic (and get the hell away from his friends with her doomwailing!)  Ginny and Ron took turns tutoring the first-years Cass took pride in watching out for, and Draco Malfoy helped by donating a pint of blood and waiting on John Tyler hand and foot. It was very strange.

"I bet she got beat up in a bar somewhere," Pansy Parkinson proclaimed at lunch the following day. "Likely cheating on that werewolf husband of hers, too, the sl-"

"Shut your dirty mouth."

Pansy looked sharply to her left to see who would dare contradict her, only to face a very calm-looking Blaise Zabini, who had the class gossip at wandpoint. At her side was Maria Catesby, who looked plainly murderous.

"How dare you-"

"What do you think, Maria?" Blaise asked almost lazily, with deliberate calm and a Malfoyish drawl. "Shall I curse her or do you want to, first?"

"You wouldn't-"

"Oh, but we would," Maria contradicted sharply. "One more word about Professor Tyler or her husband _or_ the Gryffindors and you will find yourself receiving flowers for an occasion that warrants wearing black."

"I wouldn't mess with her, Pansy," Blaise added. "Or me. Professor Snape's so busy he might not notice a student missing for some days…though Professor Hagrid might notice when the animals aren't hungry."

"Is that a threat?" Pansy asked, looking about for some sign of support. None came, even from the other Slytherins.

"A threat? Merciful heavens, no." Blaise smiled darkly. "It was a _promise_."

As Pansy cowered and eventually fled the Great Hall, Ginny Weasley watched with growing astonishment. Harry felt his hand released and Hermione noticed Ginny getting up. With a solemnness and sense of occasion beyond her years, Ginny strode across the Hall toward Maria and Blaise. Hermione and Ron rose to follow, more to protect their friend, just in case, than to extend a hand of peace, and Harry was instantly at Ginny's side.

"A word, Miss Weasley?" Blaise asked politely, tucking her wand away before a teacher saw. Ginny smiled graciously and offered the Slytherin her hand.

"Call me Ginny."

"I'm Blaise –this is Maria."

"I know. Have you met Hermione and Ron? –oh, and Harry, too."

"We know you all by reputation at least."

"Come sit with us," the redhead invited.

"Thank you, I think we will."

And as Crabbe and Goyle gawked and Millicent Bulstrode watched in confusion, Blaise Zabini and Maria Catesby, Slytherins, had lunch with the Gryffindor sixth-year class.

*********************************************************************** 

"Bring me another, Ros'."

"Cass, I don't really think you should…" Madam Rosmerta looked at the gaunt face and coldly staring eyes of her customer. "Alright."

"Thanks awfully." Cass tossed the Firewhiskey back like water. "To life –let's get it over with."

"Merlin's beard," Mad-Eye Moody observed, wandering into the Three Broomsticks and noticing the drunken werewolf. "Cassandra, have you lost your mind?"

"Yeah. Look in the road outside."

"I'm taking you back to Hogwarts _right now, whether you like it or not-"_

A mumbled, slurred curse, and the Auror was quite suddenly out cold. Cass slipped her wand back into her pocket absently.

"Constant vigilance."

After three more Firewhiskeys, the pain was at last starting to fade into the dull throbbing of a broken heart. Cass knew full well she had a right to grieve and drowning one's sorrow in liquor was the last thing anyone should have tried. But hey, it was better to be falling-down drunk than wondering what could have been.

"Rosmerta? I want a double Scotch and a Firewhiskey for my son."

Cass knew that voice.

"To your best grades yet, Draco! Well done, my boy."

A father-son drink. How prosaic and mawkishly sentimental. Cass was just about to order a seventh double shot when something occurred to her through the whiskey-induced haze. John would never do such a thing, and not because he wasn't sentimental.

She stood up. Draco realized who she was and went fairly ashen.

"Professor Tyler! What are you doing-?"

THWACK!

When cartilaginous tissue, blood, mucous membranes and bone are forced by impact into an area one-fifth the usual space they occupy in nature, a sound akin to that of a cantaloupe hitting concrete pavement is produced.

This sound was followed by a very nasty curse word as Lucius Malfoy realized the werewolf had broken his nose. 

Draco was horrified to see the admittedly pissed-off and very drunk professor light into his father like Muhammad Ali in the seventies. A chair got smashed over Lucius' head, a cane-mounted wand was snapped like a twig, and Cass's knuckles eventually split open as she repeatedly hit the aristocrat. Lucius finally pulled his hand back to strike a returning blow, but he stopped when he realized the fierce assailant was female. Draco succeeded in catching his professor's arm, and quite abruptly she stopped.

"Draco?"

"Professor?" Draco was really quite shaken. "Are you –alright?"

"What is the _meaning_ of this?" Lucius managed to gasp. 

"You sonofabitch," Cass insulted breathily, panting hard. "You just don't get it. I'm going to see you dead before a year is out -but not for this. This is just petty personal revenge."

"Are you insane?"

"Quite possibly. Hey, Draco." Cass looked at her student and smiled wryly. "Good grades, eh?"

"What have I ever done to you?"

"Nothing much, _mold_blood." Lucius recoiled in horror, realizing what had happened and who this female was. "But I'm sort of hard to hurt."

"You're a spy?" Cass didn't answer, except with a contemptuous smile and an arrogant toss of the head, revealing the grayish-white roots of the hair at her temples.

Draco suddenly rose and offered the professor his arm.

"Shall I escort you back to the castle?"

"I think that would be nice."

And Lucius was left to wonder, his nose bleeding.

****************************************************************** 


	26. Scars

Chapter Twenty-Six: Scars

"I'm sorry I di' that i'front of you," Cass slurred. 

"Well, you do fight really well for a girl," Draco observed calmly, noting the darkness of the sky and checking his watch. "And I think he deserved it."

"He'll be very pissed a'you f'r takin' me back, though, won't he?"

"I'll tell him I brought you to Dumbledore and demanded your dismissal, and then he'll blame him. He does for everything anyway." Cass's hand was still bleeding profusely. "Doesn't that hurt a lot?"

"Draco, you could saw my leg off with a dull spoon and I wouldn't feel it much. I've had enough Firewhiskey to fell Hagrid." Draco took out his wand and mumbled a healing charm anyway. "Thanks. You know, primitive surgeons did use alcohol as an anaesthetic, especially in what Yanks call the Old West."

"Didn't they have morphine?"

"Sure, but it was expensive as hell and addictive to boot. The Civil War produced 67,000 morphine addicts in just five years, you know."

"What was your Civil War about, anyway?"

"States' rights an' slavery." Cass swallowed and spat blood on the ground. "Par'n me. The Southerners wanted to do things the way they 'ad always been done, an' the Northerners felt slavery was wrong. So the South seceded and started the war by attacking Fort Sumter. Lincoln could have just let it go, but then you Brits might've recognized the Confederacy and there'd be two Americas now, plus he wanted to patch things up. So he just kept sending in food until they lost the fort, and then the war really started up."

"Why didn't he just use the atom bomb?"

"Well, the fallout would've drifted up on the Gulf Stream winds and caused major epidemics of leukemia, which would have decimated industry in the larger cities. That, and the South was still important agriculturally, because the Brits weren't getting Indian and Egyptian cotton yet." Cass almost walked into a tree. "That, and I don't think they had it then."

"Okay…what was Gettysburg?"

"A great big battle. Southerners really took a whack on that."

"Andersonville?"

"Prisoner-of-war camp. 13,000 casualties." Draco was incredulous.

"From gunfire?" 

"From dysentery, mostly. The place was badly managed and horribly maintained. The guy in charge, Henry Wirz, was executed afterward for war crimes."

"Like at Nuremberg?"

"Yeah, except they didn't need translators for this. How do you know about Nuremberg?"

"My mother's a Spencer Tracy freak."

"Girl after m'own 'eart, your mother is. Has she seen 'Desk Set'?"

"Yeah. What the hell was that Emorac thing anyway?"

"It was based on Eniac, the first computer built. They really did used to be that way."

"With all the little cards?"

"Yep. In fact, there was once a man who worked for Boeing –made airplanes, who got pissed-off at his insurance company. They got his payments wrong and whenever he tried to call he got a recording. So he took some metal and cut it into the shape of one of those cards, added the holes, and spray-painted it beige. Then he magnetized the thing and mailed it to the company. Sure enough, some ditzy git put the card in and pow!"

"Pow?"

"Computers back then used polarized ions. The magnetized card wiped out their entire system."

"Impressive."

"Tell me about it. That was the first computer virus in history." By then they were close to Hogwarts. "Why the sudden interest in Yankee stuff?"

"Professor, you've had quite a lot of alcohol on top of recent trauma and blood loss. Even _I _know to keep a person talking when they're unstable." 

Cass stared dizzily at her student.

"You aren't quite the little prick that I thought you were."

**************************************************************** 

A week or so later, things were mostly back to normal about Hogwarts. Bill Weasley was still a dish, Snape was still a snarky git, and Cass was back to her role as outrageous American, although a bit subdued in her grilling of Slytherins. Draco Malfoy was back to holier-than-thou and touch-me-not, at least in the public eye, and the Gryffindors were back to pulling ranks and being the quintessential good guys in class. There was, however, one notable change. Blaise Zabini and Maria Catesby had gone traitor. They were having a lovely little sleepover with their newfound female friends in Ginny's empty dorm, which had been deserted by the other Gryffindor girls for the two weeks' spring break.

"So let's have it, Weasley," Blaise sipped at a contraband soda. "How is he?

"What?"

"Come on. Is the Boy Who Lived worth a jump?" Ginny still looked confused. "I hear his wand's pretty big. So…?"

"Oh, you mean in bed!" Ginny picked up a few more pretzels. "I don't know yet. But don't worry, I'll give you a full report."

"Ginny!" Sometimes the petite redhead's candor still shocked Hermione. "Cripes!"

"And how's her brother, Granger, or do you know?" Maria asked.

"Yecch! Ron and I are friends!" 

"Oh, good!" Blaise had brightened considerably. The other three girls looked at her. "I've always found redhaired guys to be hot."

"You know what, Blaise? I don't think I'd want your report," Ginny observed with a look of near-nausea. "Did Dobby bring any French onion dip?"

"I did." The carefully warded door opened and Cass strode in, a large covered basket in one hand and a box of cherry Coke in the other. The girls went silent. Cass sighed. "Alright, what have I spilled on myself? What's up?" They remained quiet, clearly wondering what to say. The professor smiled and rolled her eyes. "Guys, I'm okay. Don't worry. A good fight and a hangover from hell, then I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Ginny asked concernedly.

"Yes. In fact, I actually border on content, thank you for asking."

"Did you see Mr. Tyler recently?" Blaise asked, a little grin playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Yes, just a bit ago. Why?"

"You've forgot your shirt."

"Oh, christ!" Cass quickly pulled the lapels of her jacket shut. "So _that's_ why the first-years were so amazed!"

The party quickly got underway from there. Pretzels and crisps were eaten, soda was drunk in quantities that might have killed a good-sized flobberworm, and Crookshanks was petted and fed by all. Blaise had even swiped a can of tuna especially for him.

"I've always been fond of cats," Ginny observed as the sleepy Crookshanks purred. "Even Mrs. Norris is sort of nice."

"Have any of you met little Shannon, Bill Weasley's cat?" Hermione asked. "She's really small, but very fierce when you try to take her furry mouse."

"Kind of funny how she growls," Maria remarked. "If she weren't so tiny it'd really be scary."

"When'd you meet her?" Cass asked almost absently. Maria went scarlet and the professor quickly turned curious. "Oh, there's blushing involved. Let us hear the tale."

"Were you on a jockstrap raid again?" Blaise asked.

"Eeew, guys! Mental images!" Ginny hid her eyes and cringed.

"I was –just asking about the homework."

"Oh." Cass sighed. "Damn. I love a good racy anecdote."

"Have I ever told you about the time I Transfigured Harry's underwear to a thong?" Ginny asked. "It was right before a Quidditch game. We beat Hufflepuff after fifteen minutes."

"And what does that have to do with it?" Blaise asked.

"He assumes the thong is lucky now. Wears it to every game."

"Merciful peace!" Cass grinned. "So _that's _why all the girls gasp when he flies too low and turns."

"I had a friend who believed she had lucky socks. She never took them off or watched them. Best Chaser we ever had." Blaise smiled wryly. "Nobody _wanted_ to follow her."

"I had a lucky helmet when I played hockey as a kid," Cass reminisced. "It had a black skid mark five inches long from deflecting a puck, and the face mask was bent to fit my glasses underneath." 

"You wear glasses?"

"Not anymore. Got my eyes lasered. It made playing Quidditch in the rain easier."

"Is it true that hockey's really a bloody sport?" Maria asked.

"Quite. See this scar?" Cass indicated a whitish stripe near her collarbone. "I got body-slammed and the pads cut right through my undershirt. When the game ended, there was blood soaked through to my jersey. Coach was right pissed off about the foul."

"He was pissed you got blood on the uniform?" Blaise asked, frowning.

"Nope. He was pissed at the pads company. Wrote them a hellish note about it before we'd even showered off from the game. Rather than face a lawsuit, they sent new gear for the whole team, free. That's why I never had the scar spelled off." Cass ran a finger over the mark. "That, and I'm sort of proud of it."

"Isn't bodyslamming the goalie against the rules?" Hermione asked. 

"Yes. And now you know why."

"I have a scar on my knee from practicing Quidditch." Ginny showed the others a faint little scar. "I flew low over my house and scraped it on the weathervane."

"Didn't your mum heal it?" Blaise asked.

"I didn't tell her I'd done it for almost a day."

"Oh." The thing about healing charms was that they had to be done as soon as possible and expertly to avoid scarring. "I have a neat one on the bottom of my foot." Blaise's scar was shaped almost exactly like a paw print. "Stepped on some hot marbles and didn't want to tell on the kids who put 'em by my bed."

"It's neat. Scars are just tattoos of a memory. The pain fades and you have them to remember how you felt, so you can learn from them." Hermione smiled. "I don't know why some people are so down on them."

Cass glanced at the faint line across her knuckles. The alcohol in her blood and the fact that Draco wasn't an expert at healing charms had left the tiny, almost invisible mend-scar. At first she had been resentful, but now she was glad she had the mark. She could make sure now never to forget what might have been.

************************************************************* 

Severus Snape stirred the potion with his sleeves rolled up, as it was getting quite hot in the room from the cauldron's heat. As good as his concentration usually was, he didn't hear Hermione sneaking up behind him. She waited until he put down the spoon to stroke his shoulders with both hands, slowly massaging the knots of tension out of the sore muscles. A low, contented rumble of a sigh escaped the man.

"_Where _did you learn to do that?"

"One of the girls showed me the other day," she replied calmly. "Seemed to me like you could use it."

"Oh, I can…" Severus dimmed the fire on the cauldron down to a low simmer and turned around. "I've missed you these past few days, you know."

"I always miss you, even when I've only been out of potions for three minutes." 

"Is Cassandra well?"

"She seems much better since last week."

"That's good. It was kind of a shock to hear about what she did."

"I don't blame her," Hermione said calmly. "I would do it again _for_ her if given the chance."

"And I could see you doing it," Severus smiled wryly. "It's just _how_ she did it that I found shocking. Alcohol should slow the reaction time and make her worse pugilistically, and yet-"

"It just intensified the rage and adrenaline."

"Yes. I've never heard of that happening."

"Think it's a werewolf thing?"

"That's what this potion's for." Severus turned off the burner and poured the cauldron's contents through a funnel and into a large glass bottle. There was a Muggle coffee filter attached to the nozzle of the funnel with a rubber band. It started to catch what looked like leaves. Hermione sniffed the air.

"That isn't-?"

"Mostly spiced rum, yes."

"Why the filter?"

"John insists it's best to remove the green tea before cooling."

"Green tea and spiced rum?"

"With an infusion of Siberian ginseng and Mandrake root."

_"Severus!"_

"Oh, don't worry. The dragon's blood negates _that_ particular effect."

"I don't smell dragon's blood."

"You have to add that to the serving." The professor smirked. "Care to take a little taste?"

To his shock, Hermione just shrugged and smiled.

"Sure, why not?" She reached for a glass and Severus stopped her.

"I was joking." She grinned at his nervousness. "Besides, it has to cool. How about some tea?"

"Tea would be excellent –the iced kind?"

"In this heat? Naturally." Severus walked over to another cauldron, one with suspicious-looking white lumps in it, and poured it through a funnel as he had the rum into two glasses. It was iced tea a'la potions master, perfectly done.

"You use a cauldron to brew _iced tea?"_

"Why not? It brews faster hot and then you can just use a cooling charm, plus ice." Hermione leaned over and kissed him.

"You're strange. Darling and quite lovely, but a little strange."

"Thank you." Severus handed her a glass, and after clinking them together, each of the pair drank.

"So what are you doing this afternoon?"

"Cass and John have invited us up to the Shrieking Shack for a movie around seven, if you want to go."

"I remember he mentioned that. Sounds alright." Severus drank another sip of tea. "Do you want to look over the books in my library while I check papers? I still have a few to go."

"Books? You said the right thing to the right Gryffindor." 

"To my chambers, then?" With an air of relaxed gleefulness, the pair went off to pursue intellectuality. It was becoming their favorite way to work, Hermione on her research of anything that had pages and held still, and Severus on his day job for awhile before going to join her at the books. 

There were only a few problems. Hermione had a slight tendency to argue with books out loud, and Severus looked on grading as a kind of game with wrong answers as targets. Usually one of them would make an absurd outburst, and then the other would smile before the two of them shared a little shrug and sigh. 

"_Asphodel? _Was the boy even _in_ the class?"

"Oscar Wilde was _never_ –this useless git writer!"

"God _forbid_ anything be _spelled_ correctly!"

"What a _pompous_ old fairy schmuck!"

Maybe to people who didn't live and die for knowledge it sounded strange, but to intellectuals like these, an hour of inflammatory reading was the perfect prelude to a fierce snog session. 

And who says bookworms never fall in love?

*************************************************************** 


	27. Unnatural Blondes

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Unnatural Blondes

"Malfoy!"

"Hello, Draco. What are you doing here?" Severus asked, a bit more calmly than Hermione's surprised outburst.

"Professor Cass told me to wait near the Whomping Willow for you two and then hand you this note. It isn't in English." Malfoy handed Snape a note. Severus frowned at it for a few seconds and then handed it to Hermione, who smiled.

"It's Wolfish for 'bring him along.'"

"How can you write Wolfish?" Severus and Draco asked together.

"You can't. Cass wrote it in English, backwards, in Greek letters and upside-down. The picture is of us bringing him." She gestured to the three stick figures. "Can't draw worth a damn, can she?"

"Why do I get the impression she'd be a Gryffindor, too?" Malfoy wondered absently. The unlikely trio headed for the now-dormant Willow, as Snape had levitated a stick to hit the secret knot, and made their way to the Shrieking Shack.

It had changed a lot since Hermione's third year, at least on the inside. It still looked –well, rather shacklike on the outside, but now the door had a password to it, an incredibly complex one.

"Would you do the honors?" Snape asked his female student.

"Of course." Hermione took a breath and recited:

_"'Wolfy paws and cattish wits  
Slytherins are mostly gits  
Mrs. Norris eats a mouse  
Welcome to the Tylers' house!'"_

And the door swung open. 

"That was a bit eccentric," Draco observed, a little offended at the second line. "Can't she just have us say 'manticore' or 'Jane Austen' like any normal professor?"

"Whose is 'Jane Austen'?" Hermione asked.

"Weasley. Fancies Muggle books, he does," Severus explained.

"Well, come in already!" Cass called from a room within. She was seated at a computer desk, typing rapidly with two fingers and her thumbs. The room had quite a few other desks in it, none of which matched, and there were cables, wires, and computer parts everywhere, even on several chairs of various kinds. The Shrieking Shack had definitely changed quite a bit since the Yanks moved in.

Instead of the rather old and dusty décor Hermione recalled, the rooms had been neatly painted various fairly ordinary colors, and the mahogany wainscoting was nicely refinished. It looked like the stately place had been restored to all previous glory –except, of course, for the furniture, which was all of that inelegant style beloved by college students and the poor: unmitigated disaster.

"Where on earth did you find this chair, Cassandra?" Severus asked, indicating a stately wingback armchair with dark wooden feet and neon violet upholstery in lush, tasteless velvet. "It's…very unusual."

"I found it at a yard sale back home," Cass explained, patting the monstrosity of decorating lovingly. "It used to have ghastly flowered Seventies fabric on it, but it was all old and torn-up, so I redid it in this. I think the chair was originally 1930s, but some twit redid it once, so it had to be done again."

"Ah. So why velvet?"

"My favorite designer," Cass retorted wryly. "His name is On Sale. And what's more, I like purple"

"I thought it was blue," John said, coming in from the dining room with a rectangular grey box in his arms. "But I'm not exactly known for my color sense. Draco, can you help me with this?" 

"Of course, sir." Draco hastened to the werewolf's side.

"Can you get those two cables there hooked up to the back of this while I get the monitor?" John asked, setting the box down on one of the several desks. "Hermione, if you could tell him which goes where?"

"Is that a pucompter?" Draco asked eagerly.

"Computer," Cass, John and Hermione corrected in unison.

"Yes, it is. We're going to commit several felonies today, and then maybe we'll watch a movie." Cass said this as happily as if they were to bake cookies. 

"But I thought electricity won't work on the Hogwarts grounds," Draco observed confusedly. John smiled.

"Not in Hogwarts proper, but here's far away enough. All we get's a bit of static from it, and a good antenna clears it up."

"What are the computers for?" Severus asked.

"Well, you remember awhile ago, when Cassie wanted to pick up wizarding stations with a Muggle radio?" John asked, grinning boyishly. "We've figured out how to do it backwards."

"So we're going to broadcast –what?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, we're not broadcasting anything," Cass explained. "Though we certainly could. You know that wizard antennas are pretty much long, thin wands?"

"Yes."

"Did you know that computer commands work a hell of a lot like spells?" John asked, his grin growing broader.

"Really?" Hermione was fascinated. 

"All we had to do was reverse the antennas, write a program to operate them like broadcast software, and write commands that work the spells." 

"How long did that take?" Severus asked suspiciously. The werewolves frowned.

"Just under a day to build the system," John admitted. "Cassie's still working on all the commands we'll need."

"But you can do magic with computers?" Draco asked.

"You bet your ass, Blondie," Cass replied.

"I see what you meant about felonies," Hermione observed wryly.

"But what, exactly, is the purpose of all of this?" Snape asked. "Apart from rendering Hogwarts totally obsolete, endangering countless lives, and making magic accessible to Muggles, why go to the trouble?"

Draco, it should be remarked, went quite ashen.

"Sevvy, dear, do you know what an amplifier is?" Cass inquired artlessly.

"Makes guitars louder."

"Makes _anything_ louder, or stronger, or greater in magnitude. We've added one into this system." Cass and John looked absolutely serious.

"Meaning?"

"To put it quite bluntly, a six-year-old could use the Killing Curse."

_"What?"_

"On anybody in Europe or the eastern half of America, no less." John added.

"Are you insane?" 

"Possibly. You do, however, realize what this means?" Cass frowned sternly.

"Instant destruction of anyone," Draco said quietly. "You've beaten everybody, haven't you?"

"Well, in theory, at least," John remarked, brightening. "We've only got two commands for it so far, and it's not quite finished being built."

"And it would go a lot faster if I could quit playing solitaire," Cass remarked.

"But you can really work magic with a computer?" Severus asked, looking a little uneasy. Cass smiled and reached for the mouse. A little bit of typing later, Draco found himself being levitated very nicely two feet off the floor.

"Does that satisfy you?" Cass asked.

"Yes," Severus replied in a slightly strangled voice. "Could you put him down?"

"As soon as I write a command for that, sure." Cass immediately resumed her frenetic keybeating and Draco sighed.

"Shall I paint the ceiling while I'm up here?" he inquired sarcastically.

"Thanks, mate," John replied cheerfully, getting him a paint roller and some white paint 

in a tray. "Awfully thoughtful of you. It needs it."

**************************************************************** 

"If I told you I would do anything, leave anyone, take back any mistake I'd made?"

"You couldn't."

"But if I could?"

"Even if you took what you did back, Lucius, it wouldn't matter to me. I'd still remember each and every one." Narcissa gestured to the Pensieve sitting on Lucius' desk. "And no spell of yours can erase my memory now. I would still hate you."

There was a long pause.

"How is that?" the blond man asked, defeatedly.

"You know full well how."

"Are you sleeping with him?"

The smack came, hard, hitting directly beside the black eye Cass had given him in her drunken rage.

"Severus is the brother I never had, Lucius. He and the brother you cast off are the only family I have left besides our son."

"You've spoken to Salazar?"

"Those 'shopping trips' to America? I was at his wedding, Lucius, and I'm godmother to his son, who, incidentally, is partly named after you. Poor kid."

There was another long pause. Lucius had not seen or spoken to his younger brother in nearly four years.

"Then you favor Muggle-borns after all?"

"Lucius, I could care less about wizards' parentage. Remember that girl you and Macnair nearly killed after the ball? I was the one who stunned Macnair and drove her to Poppy's to get patched up. What's more, I gave her a pint of my own blood, as did our son. I only wish he had gotten some of hers."

"She's the professor, you know." Lucius recalled numbly. "The werewolf."

"Yes, Lucius. I knew even before you invited her."

"You would have our son become –one of those?"

"Better half a wolf than half a wizard, which is what you are." Narcissa took off the ring she wore and slapped it down on the desk. "Remember when you gave me that, what you said? 'A life lived in fear is a life half lived.' You fear your master more than you fear getting caught. I'm amazed our son doesn't pity you."

"Our son…" Lucius had a sudden terror. "You wouldn't take Draco away…?"

"Why not, Lucius?" Narcissa said quite airily, tapping the Pensieve with a neatly polished nail so that it rang out a silvery note. "You certainly didn't care about the little half-bloods you sent to Riddle's orphanage without a second thought, did you? At least none of them were yours, or do you really know?"

"I don't."

Narcissa gave Lucius a cold little smirk and tapped the Pensieve with her wand, calling up the memory of his fight in the Three Broomsticks awhile ago.

"You know, there's something I like about that American," she observed calmly. "Draco writes that they get along very well and he enjoys her class. She also seems like a nice sort to me. A bit of a berserker, but she's got more than a right to that in your case." She glanced at his bruised face with an evilly chipper look. She paused the swirling memory on the Yank's face and stared suddenly at the image. Lucius couldn't bear it anymore and left the library, but Narcissa stayed, wondering what was so damned familiar. 

She let the memory play forward a bit, until Draco and Cass were both facing Lucius, and she stopped it there. That was it. The eyes. The slightly arrogant arch of the brows and the high cheekbones were the same in both the American and her son, and the eyes of both were that misty blue-gray, cold as an agate depending on their mood. How very remarkable. If that didn't shoot the 'pure-blood' theory in the arse, nothing would. A yank who looked like Draco and therefore Lucius…no wonder he was so infuriated by her mere existance.

Something in that thought hit her the wrong way. Sternly, Narcissa started the memories spinning again. She was looking for one final damning clue -one she wasn't sure she wanted to find. 

There was actually one way she would stop hating Lucius. It involved not the taking back of crimes, however, but repairing the damage done and fighting for the right he had long ago betrayed. It was something she would do herself to win back the man she had once, and, in a small way, still loved.

**************************************************************** 

"Drat it all!" The computer went still and Cass vainly tried a combination of keys over and over, only producing a repetitive humming sound. "God damn this piece of…" The Yank fumbled for a word bad enough and didn't find it."Never mind!"

"What's wrong?" Draco asked. Hermione looked up from the old Compaq she was hooking up.

"Computer's froze again. I might as well be playing Quidditch on a Hoover. Shit." Cass got up from the office chair and stretched her arms. "D'you two want to come get a part with me?"

"Anything beats the ceilings," Draco remarked, putting the roller down. He had stopped levitating quite awhile ago, but he had secretly been enjoying the fun of using Muggle paint. It was even better when he attached a broom handle to the roller and stood on solid floor, but he'd sooner dance naked with Buckbeak than admit it. 

"Sounds like fun," Hermione agreed. "What sort of part?"

"Computery-wizardy kind of thing. I know a chick." Cass replied vaguely. "I'll go tell John and Sev where we're going, if you two'd like to get sodas."

"Shall we fly?" Draco asked hopefully. Cass grinned.

"In a manner of speaking." Hermione looked at her quizzically. "Dingo's parked out back."

***************************************************************** 


	28. The Chapter With the Invisible Title

Chapter Twenty-Eight: 

"What is this place?" Draco asked, looking at the red light and the antiquated décor of the house they had just entered. He had a nasty suspicion as to what it was, and he wasn't sure he liked the idea. "It's not a…?"

"But of course it is," Cass replied brightly. A little boy of about six appeared, dressed in a nice Muggle suit, and she whistled, calling him over. "I'd like a word with Mel."

"Sure thing, Auntie Cat." The little boy scampered off. Hermione and Draco were astonished.

"What?" Cass asked, looking at them in confusion.

"You're a Hogwarts professor, and yet you know people –that is…ladies of ill repute?" Draco stammered.

"Naturally."

"Er…how did you ever meet –erm…"

"The Internet, 'Mione, and don't look so shocked." Cass grinned affably and began flipping through a ledger on what resembled a hotel sign-in desk. "It's a perfectly decent profession, though not necessarily my cup of tea, and who's to condemn what works for others?"

"But they're…you know…"

"Draco, if you've never met a hooker, you are missing out on some good conversation and a lot of fun. They're a better class of people than purebloody sticks-up-arse."

"It does sort of sound fascinating," Hermione observed timidly. "Sort of like Belle Watling in 'Gone With the Wind.'"

"Oh, you've read that, too?" a quite ordinary-looking female asked, appearing from another room. "I always felt Scarlett was a little cartoonish, but Belle/Rhett makes for some lovely angsty fics."

"Hermione and Draco, if I may introduce the mistress of magical miscreance herself, Melanie Watling."

"It's nice to meet you," Draco responded automatically. Some things were just programmed into wealthy kids. "Er- are you really a-?"

"Hooker? Yes, though the term 'courtesan' has a much nicer ring to it." Mel smiled and motioned for them to follow her. "The costume makes it hard to tell, doesn't it?" She was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, on top of ragged jeans. "So Lady Cat's your professor, eh?"

Both students glanced at Cass. Mel sat down at a computer, smiling.

"You haven't even gotten them hooked on it, have you, mate?"

"I haven't even shown them what it is." Cass shrugged. "With the homework they get, there's no time for addiction."

"Poor kids," Mel observed wryly, tapping at the keys. Draco was, by now, quite ashen.

"Are you talking about Muggle drugs?" he asked.

"Sweet satan, you haven't told the albino anything!" Mel chastised Cass. "Draco –whatever it is, have you ever been on the Internet?"

"Oh, gods," Cass gasped, turning to face the wall.

"No, ma'am."

"Poor kid. You haven't seen anything." Mel called up a website and began to search links. "Have you ever read a Muggle book?"

"My mother made me read 'Les Miserables,'" Draco offered. Hermione was also quite confused, but she thought she recognized the site. "I sort of did like it."

"Okay. Books, 'Les Miserables,' here!" Mel had called up a list of links. "This, darling kids, is called fanfiction." The hooker sent Cass a mischievous grin. "Your professor is one of the best-known slash and het writers."

"Cass!" Hermione was shocked. "Slash?"

"Oh, so _you_ know what's going on!" Mel happily patted Hermione on the shoulder. "You write?"

"I just used to read it sometimes on the summer breaks."

"Lurker. Tell me you reviewed."

"Only the good ones."

"Spiffy, Lady Cat. Now to take the albino's virginity." Draco went absolutely scarlet as Mel got up and gave him her chair. "Read that," she instructed, calling a story up. "You use the mouse to make it scroll down."

"Mel, that is really unethical. Scaring virgins."

"Hey, the addiction should be shared with all. How's the chapter on your new angsty fic?"

"Rotten. Been building a new system, need a part."

"So that's why you came on my night off. What sort of hard you need?"

"New cheese nibblers for five, PS/2, and a read-only wheel."

"Still want that grill I promised?"

"Is it in?"

"Ready and cabled. Your petit-sibs non voker scrivny chat?"

"Not a speck, except maybe girlie sib, petit."

"Naw sharr. Blank slate countin'." Mel smiled. "Other one's on the ashtray side. Mixling or pole-up-arse?"

"More like log."

"Tragique. The parcel to your sinister's got the pogue."

"You pulled 'em?"

"Ring flash. Pull a puller, eh?"

Cass grinned.

"You're a good friend, Mel."

"And you're a good writer. When in the hell is your next chapter?"

"I'll beat keys tonight. How much leaf you want?"

"Usual apiece." Cass handed the hooker a roll of bills. Just then, Draco burst into laughter and nearly choked himself.

"Merlin's balls, that's hilarious!"

"See?" Mel asked. "Told you he'd like the site."

************************************************************ 

_From the journal of Bilius Arthur 'Bill' Weasley, Professor:_

            I should owl the house-elves to bring up some food, since Maria's meeting me here tonight. It's positively sad the way Robby elf's been fawning on me lately. One or two compliments and the poor elf goes mad. True, his ham sandwiches are lovely, though. I love that brown mustard he uses, wonder what sort it is. Pumpernickel bread is definitely better than rye, though, I'm sure of it. Something about the color makes me fond of it. I wonder if I could talk Robby or one of the other elves into getting some chicken up, maybe with that potato salad Winky makes and some of those pickles…

_(Some paragraphs of the food nature omitted, Mr. Weasley having clearly been hungry.) _

            There again, Maria's friend what's-her-name mentioned she liked crisps. I'm fond of them myself, even if they are rather bad for you. That's likely why Mum only had them about the house for parties and such. I do prefer girls who don't mind a crisp or two. That poor girl Amy Spinnet was nearly anorexic trying to stay small for Quidditch, and I reckon that was why Charlie switched her to Beating. Her sister Alicia played as well. I know because Ron inherited her spot. Harry's new lineup's been really good, but I don't like to bring that up because Maria's a Slytherin. It's astonishing how badly those snakes treat women, for all the 'pure-bloods' are supposed to be noble and chivalrous. Miserable inbred gits! 

            I wish I could trust myself alone with her overnight. I don't want to scare her, or push her into doing anything she'd regret, but I'm –I can't believe I'm even writing this. I'm falling in love with one of my students. Holy hell! What would my _mother_ say?

            Nevermind. Mum would probably be rooting for the girl. 

            Am I crazy? Is this a bad idea? I know that rules and ethics say I can't love her, but emotions and the facts of how wonderful she is say I must, or I'd be insane. How can I not love her, when she reads and thinks and challenges anything she thinks is wrong, to the point when even if she's off her nut I agree with her? She has that darling way of frowning over her assignment and biting at her lip when she concentrates, and absentmindedly gazing at nothing when she's finished with that mysterious little smile. She's had so little to smile about, and yet she seems to smile more often every day. Is it because of me? Does she know I care about her the way I do? I think-

_(Large inkblot where Mr. Weasley evidently slammed journal shut on pen.)_

***************************************************************** 

"What exactly did you two say back there?" Hermione asked Cass. Draco was sitting happily in the backseat with a printed-out sheaf of 'Les Miserables' and 'Lord of the Rings' fanfic, laughing occasionally. "And what language was it in?"

"Scrivny chat," Cass explained. "Writer slang."

"Writer slang?" Hermione frowned in disbelief. "I don't remember any of that in the ones I read."

"It developed in chatrooms and when the writers met irl," Cass explained. "I just told Mel what parts I needed and answered a few questions about you two. She thought Draco was dishy and asked if he was a pureblood or a Muggle-born."

"You mean she's a witch?" 

"An _ex-_witch." Cass grinned ruefully. "Her family was all Death Eaters and whatnot, so she snapped her wand and went to live with the Muggles and courtesans."

"She became a hooker by _choice?_"

"Hey, I didn't say I understood her, duck. Maybe she likes the ...work, or perhaps she saw_ 'Pretty Woman'_ one too many times."

"Melanie Watling's not her real name, then?"

"No more'n mine's Lady Cat."

"I didn't know fanfiction was written by hookers -and professors," Hermione commented, trying not to seem too shaken by Melanie's ...choice of occupation. "What-all was it you needed?"

"Five mice and a CD-ROM drive, plus she had the burner I asked for a month ago."

"So that's what a grill is."

"Grills burn things, so do CD burners."

"And cheese nibblers are mice."

"Right in one."

"Cass, you're mad."

"Thank you. Draco-boy, are you buckled up?"

"Yeah," Draco replied absently. "What's a hobbit?"

_"Gaaah!" _

Cass had flipped the car and was now driving at a very high speed, upside-down. Draco failed to notice, as the papers were all in his hands and didn't so much as rustle from the change. Hermione, however, was bordering on terrified.

"You crazy werewolf, put it right!"

"Hmm?" Draco looked up from the story he was reading. Shocked quite thoroughly, he barely managed to squeak out a 'help' before Cass gunned Dingo's motor like a bat out of hell and drove through a neat series of almost vertical loops. Draco finally relaxed his death grip on the back of the front seat and began tentatively to smile during the first loop. Hermione was by then calling her professor every expletive she knew, including a few specially invented for the occasion. The werewolf put the car through a series of rollercoaster-like dips and turns, all at speeds well beyond legal and even safe. Draco let out a cheer, finally enjoying the insane ride. Hermione swore and hid her eyes, terrified.

At last, Cass brought Dingo down, slowing to a stop on the ground, directly in front of a familiar, slightly ramshackle house. Several garden gnomes chittered away at the car's landing and a redhaired man emerged from the house, napkin still around his neck.

"Holy crumbs!" Arthur dropped his fork on the head of a garden gnome. "Mrs. Tyler, you didn't mention that it _worked!"_

********************************************************* 

"It was awful."

"It was exciting."

"She belongs in St. Mungo's."

"She's a great driver."

"I'm going to be sick."

"I'm going to see if I can get her to teach me how to drive."

Draco left, heading toward the garage in back of the Tyler's 'Shack' and Hermione found herself being hugged.

"Darling, I should have warned you."

"You _knew_ that miserable lump of tin could fly?"

"Well, no, but I did suspect her of driving recklessly." Severus shrugged.

_"Recklessly?"_ Hermione sank into a couch with Snape beside. "Severus, that bordered on homicidal. Just exactly what is that girl's problem?"

"Blood," John Tyler replied tacitly, appearing from inside a closet. There was a roll of flowered shelf paper in his hand. 

"What do you mean, blood?" Severus asked.

"Cassie has wild blood." John set the shelf paper down and picked up a screwdriver to open a paint can, as if his explanation was perfectly logical. Noticing his friends' blank faces, however, he continued. "It's complicated. Cassie's civilized enough, but I've noticed a few odd tendencies from the day I met her."

"Like her driving?"

"Naw, that's just playing. Wolves play a lot, you know."  As he spoke, John neatly painted a smiley face on the wall, then covered it over with the paint. "Have you noticed she holds a grudge like hell?"

"Doesn't she have a right in the case of –you know?" Hermione tried to be tactful. John sighed and scratched at his beard.

"In that case, yes. But she also holds grudges against herself. It's like she needs anger and something to rail against to survive." 

"I know a few people who are like that," Severus pointed out. "Minerva McGonagall, for one."

"I've seen her at Quidditch games –you're not wrong, my friend. But she doesn't wage war on Slytherins. The minute Moldy-Voldy's put in lavender, Cassie's going to want to go and fight something else."

"Put in lavender?"

_"Moldy-Voldy?"_ Snape couldn't restrain a smile.

"Put in lavender means killed," John explained. "I also think her dad's got something to do with it."

"Does she miss him, here in England?"

"She misses her father, yes," John replied bitterly. "She also doesn't know who her _father_ is." He abuptly dropped the paintbrush and punched the wall with his fist, splintering lath and sending plaster dust to the floor. His expression didn't so much as change during the outburst. "Goddamn."

Hermione was already off the couch. She delicately pulled the splinters out of John's hand and began to mumble healing charms, none of which the werewolf noticed.

"How is that?" Severus asked gently.

"Her mother was attacked before she was born. All her life there was doubt, but now she knows the man she grew up with isn't her biological father." John sighed. "If she were an ordinary Muggle, or if her mother had been a witch, it would be alright, but now she has to wonder if she was fathered by a Dark wizard. I don't think she's too far off the mark in that."

"How so?" Severus frowned. "She's American."

John shook his head, smiling in a halfhearted, bitter way.

"Not quite. The attack happened in Britain."

************************************************************* 

"Gaw dammit," Cass observed wryly, rubbing her ankle. "That was a shit landing."

"Good race, though," Draco replied encouragingly. 

In the few weeks since Malfoy had been introduced to Cass's driving habits, the two had been sharing their affinity for fast things, brooms included. The professor was dressed in a genuinely odd assortment of Quidditch things, 'borrowed' from the retire piles in the locker room. She had old Ravenclaw robes over a Hufflepuff jersey and some Slytherin pants. The only thing not swiped was her pair of Quidditch gloves. 

"I think I sprained it."

"That 'ent good." Draco was starting to pick up a few American words in his speech. "Hold still." The lean sixth-year neatly picked his teacher up. "You're lighter than I thought."

"Put me down, snakey-boy."

"You need to see Madam Pomfrey about that foot."

"I can walk on it!"

_"Sure."_

"Aw, f'rchrissakes, Draco!"

"Say, you're a mudblood, aren't you?"

"Muddy as the Mon' River."

"I think we're turning into friends."

"Yes. Buddies. Can you put me down before I claw your nuts off?"

"No, this is neat. I've never had a Yankee friend before."

"Draco, watch out for the-" THUNK! Cass sighed and picked herself up. "Goalpost."

**************************************************************


	29. Dragons

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Dragons

"Can anyone tell me who invented the Remembrall?" Cass inquired of the class as she swept in, about a minute late as usual. Several hands went up and she called on Neville.

"Aldous Dumbledore."

"Really? Any relation to our Headmaster?"

"His great-uncle, I think."

"Cool." The class waited expectantly for Cass to begin the lesson on what might be Muggle mnemonic devices, but instead she shuffled through papers and items on her desk for about a minute before noticing their looks. "What? Oh, I was just curious about the Remembrall. Nothing relevant." The werewolf finally found what she was looking for and held it up –a picture of a man in an antique-looking uniform. "See this man? This fellow is widely believed to be the biggest son-of-a-bitch ever to walk the earth. Can anyone who is not either Muggle-born or friends with Hermione tell me who he is?"

Blaise raised her hand and Cass called on her, despite the fact that she was, by now, friends with Hermione. "Miss Zabini, who is this little shit?"

"Adolf Elizabeth Hitler."

For reasons that only a few students understood, the professor had to restrain an absolute storm of mirth.

"Up on your Mel Brooks, I see. Very good." Cass perched on her desk and picked up another picture. "See this guy what looks like a muscular Malfoy? This is a Nazi recruitment poster. Blond hair, blue eyes, looks like a Scandinavian sex god. Anybody know why it's hypocritical bullshit?"

Sometimes the good professor's language was a little rough. She called on Maria. "Yes?"

"Hitler himself didn't look like that."

"Great! Now, can you tell me what Nazis were?"

"The National Socialist Party in Germany."

"Right. And what was their goal?"

"Establish a master race of Aryans and conquer the world."

"Perfect." Cass put the picture down and hopped off the desk. She began to amble calmly around the room as she lectured. "I'd like you all to imagine something for me, so shut your eyes." Everyone complied. "Picture your house. Imagine your family next to it. Moms, dads, overbearing grandmothers, even your siblings and pets. Got it?" Most everyone nodded. "Okay. The nation you live in lost a war. A big war. It ended about the time your dad was born, but your country's still really poor because of it. In fact, your national currency is close to worthless. One Galleon has become worth about an eighth of a Knut, so nobody's rich. Most of the men your grandfather's age are _not there_. In the war your country lost, they had kids your age fighting toward the end. Okay, everyone got that?"

There were many nods and even a shudder or two.

"Okay. You are dirt poor, because everybody is. The only people who have money, it seems, are the bankers and the people who had outside interests during and after the war. It also happens that goblins don't run the banks. The people who seem to have all the money and power, at least to you, are people called Jews. They aren't any different from you, except that they have a different faith, and some of them look different. But they have money, and you're poor. Okay?"

"Damn Jews," Goyle remarked.

"Remember you said that as I go on, mate," Cass replied calmly. "Alright. Not all the Jews are rich, and not all the rich people are Jews. But they're different and you're miserable. Then one day you turn on the wireless and there's a man saying that the reason why you're eating brown bread and sausage is the Jews. He says it's all their fault and if you'll follow him, he'll make everything better. _Everything._ What's more, this guy is a really good speaker. Everyone you know seems to think he's a pretty good deal. So you either join his party or wait awhile. Maybe you have a few friends who happen to be Jews and you might doubt him a little bit. Maybe you think he's too harsh, or maybe you think he's nuts. But a lot of people believe him, and before you know it, he's in charge. They call him 'Leader' and millions of people just think he's great. In fact, people don't say hello anymore. They say something that basically means 'Hooray for the Leader' whenever they meet someone. Flags with this symbol go up everywhere. Get a look." Cass held up a swastika flag picture. "Okay?"

"Isn't that an Indian good-luck symbol?" Parvati asked.

"Indian and Tibetan, yeah. This guy sorta swiped it." Cass grinned. "Alright, keep imagining this guy in charge. Every day he announces that your country and your people, your race, is the best in the world. The master race. And the Jews are evil and subhuman, like monkeys. So Jewish people start getting out. People move out like crazy. Just pack up and go, with no word to anyone, because people who like the Leader are beating on them nonstop. Everyone's been to Ollivander's, right? Okay. If Mr. Ollivander was Jewish, there would be graffiti all over his shop. Even him. No matter how respected people were, they were attacked for their faith and race. They even have to wear a big yellow star, like this, to make sure everyone can see that they're Jews. It's like a target mark for the Leader's goons. Sounds kind of unfair, doesn't it?

"But it doesn't stop there. One night in November, the Night of Broken Glass, _all_ the Jews get beat on, all at once. Shop windows are smashed, people are forced to scrub the streets with their toothbrushes, little kids get rocks thrown at them, and some people even get killed. Some of them might even be your friends. After that, people start to disappear even faster, but this time it's not that they moved out. The Leader's troops and his secret police have taken them away. Some of you might hide your Jewish friends or try to help them get out of the country, and if you get caught, you get taken away as well."

"Where are they taken to?" Millicent Bulstrode asked, a little awed. Cass looked at her, an expression of stern sadness on her face.

"Concentration camps." The class looked at their professor, some confusedly, some with a knowing and serious look, and some with mute horror. "They were big open camps, surrounded by barbed wire and sometimes walls. People slept on shelves there, and ate nothing but soup and bread, if that. When they arrived, everything they owned was taken away from them. They were given striped uniforms to wear, none of which fit because the Leader's soldiers liked them to look funny, and their heads were shaved."

Lavender Brown let out an involuntary squeak, appalled. Cass turned on her. 

"Oh, that's not the worst of it. Everyone had a number tattooed on their arm, right there." Cass poked Lavender's wrist. Every so often, the soldiers would shoot a few people, just for target practice. Everyone had to work hard, all day, with only this to eat." The professor took a dented metal bowl of thin cabbage soup and a little chunk of bread from her desk cabinet. "I know it's close to lunch. Anyone here hungry? How about you, Goyle?" She took the bowl and bread and placed them before the boy. "Try it."

"No spoons?"

"Never any spoons, unless you could sneak them in. Try it." 

Tentatively, Goyle nibbled at the bread. It was the slowest anyone had ever seen him eat. 

"There's mold on this!"

"Almost always. Try the soup."

Goyle complied, lifting the bowl like a cup. A second later, he spat it out.

"Was it really-?"

"Yes, if not much worse. There was one serving like that a day, and everyone had to use their same food bowl to go to the bathroom in."

Goyle looked about to vomit and Cass passed him a paper bag.

"Every so often, people would be taken into buildings, twins especially, or people with differences. Sometimes it was left-handed people, or people with glasses, though all the glasses were taken away when they arrived. A doctor named Josef Mengele did experiments on them, with no anaesthetic or even safety measures. He injected dye into children's eyes, castrated men, sterilized women with x-ray machines, and even amputated limbs. Sometimes he would remove vital organs, just to see how long a person could survive. Sometimes he starved people and gave them nothing but salt water. When he was done with a person or a child –he liked children best- he would take them to big buildings with locking doors. Inside were what looked like showerheads. The guards would also pick people from the camp, if they looked weak, or caused trouble, or even just looked the wrong way at them. Everyone went in naked, with bars of soap, as if it were a shower. It wasn't."

The professor turned her back on the class and took out a stack of pictures, which she handed to Blaise to pass around. They were of starved people, mass graves, the gas chambers, the gates of Auschwitz, and several worse things. There was one of prisoners lying on what genuinely looked like storage shelves, looking out at the camera with gaunt eyes. There was also a well-dressed doctor in a military uniform with spotless white gloves. The caption below read simply 'Mengele.' 

"Over six million Jews were killed during what is now called the Holocaust," Cass recited numbly. "There were also many more Gypsies, Poles, political prisoners, ministers, priests, homosexuals, the elderly, the terminally ill, the deaf, the mentally deficient, the blind, and even ordinary citizens who just happened to disagree with the regime, who suffered the same fate. The leader was Adolf Hitler, the time was the nineteen-forties, and the countries were Europe. Your continent, only fifty-odd years ago."

There was a long silence. Noone knew what to make of this. A few people had known about it before, but the faces of those who hadn't made it all the more petrifying. Class was nearly over, but noone could relax. Finally Cass perched on her desk again and waited for the pictures to come back to her. She looked at one and frowned.

"It's awful, isn't it? There are people who say it never happened, you know. There are people called neo-Nazis who think it would be fine and good to do it again, but to every other minority as well. Anyone here agree with that?"

The class, as one, showed that they did not.

"Okay, I've depressed you all enough. Class is almost over, so I'm going to let you out." Cass smiled in her absent way and put the pictures back on her desk. As she walked back into her office, she suddenly called over her shoulder. "Just one thing. Instead of Jews, imagine it happening to Muggle-borns."

********************************************************

Draco met Cass outside her classroom door after dinner.

"You think You-Know-Who would-?"

"I _know_ he would."

"What are you going to do?"

"Fight him."

"I mean, how?" Cass looked at the blond boy as if he were mad.

"By any means possible, of course. I will send in spies, I will plant bugs and traps, I will sabotage. I will reprogram, I will defame, I will whistle-blow and expose. I will wound and kill, though I'd much rather merely wound. We are at war as of twenty-odd years ago, and I'll be damned if I'll not use every shred of my being to take the dark side down."

Draco had the sudden realizion that his teacher had repeated this as a mantra for a long time. The force of her will and her absolute belief in the wrongness of Voldemort finally tipped the scale.

"I'm not sure if you can beat him," he said quietly. "But I want to help you try."

Cass looked at her student and almost-friend sternly, blue-gray eyes mirroring his in color and degree of seriousness.

"Then go speak to Dumbledore." It was not a brush-off or insult and Draco knew it. "I'm not the one to offer allegiance to."

"But are you the one to apologize and confess to?" Cass' expression softened.

"Confess maybe. I can keep a secret, but you've done no wrong to me." She grinned in her wry way. "It's a bit like knights an' ladies here, isn't it? 'Get thee to Dumbledore,' 'confess thy sins…' I feel a little bit like a crusader priest."

"_You_ a priest?" It was Hermione, coming around the corner with a sarcastic smile. 

"More like one of those nuns in 'The Sound of Music,' maybe." Cass smiled thoughtfully. "Or not. A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste. Going down to see Sevvy for lunch, are you?" Hermione went red and Draco frowned.

"What is _with_ Professor Snape and you anyway?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Draco! Been a member of the team thirty seconds and already into innuendo and politics." Cass rolled her eyes and grinned in a faintly Lockhart way. "I like that, actually. Reminds me of me." The professor took out her wand and began to twirl it idly. "Hermione and Sevvy have a very good working relationship. They're the only two people who've read the whole goddamn library." 

"So we have lots to fight about," Hermione agreed.

"Hard to find a good argument. I might _also_ ask, Dragon-boy, what is _up_ with you and Blaise Zabini anyway?"

"She's always been my friend. Since she and Flint broke up, we've been kind of tricking everyone into thinking we're together. Keeps Parkinson away from me and Goyle away from her."

"How very Slytherinish." Hermione showed Draco the book she had, _'Potions to Analyze,'_ volume four. "Read this yet?"

"A little, yeah. Going to cook up something to test blood with tonight?"

"Have to for my project. Want to come be a guinea pig?"

"Sure."

"I already promised to bleed for her as well," Cass explained. "But you've got to have two people. Vampires!"

************************************************************** 

Bill watched the dimming sunlight play on Maria's hands as she gestured. She was telling him how the transfiguration lesson that day had gone, an amusing anecdote, but he kept getting distracted by how wonderful she looked. There was a light in her eyes that hadn't been there when she'd first walked into his life, and her little half-smile seemed genuine. She wasn't _remarkably_ dressed, although the plunging necklines and faintly slutty lines had given way to a, elegantly demure skirt that reached almost to her calves and swirled whenever she turned quickly. She looked a little like a librarian from the ankles up, with plain stockings and school shoes beneath the skirt. Her makeup was softer, too, just a dusting of gray above the eyes and some light lipgloss. It was like she was a different girl altogether from the suicidal and jaded creature she had been before. 

"Why didn't she think to leash the iguana before turning it into a cat?"

"I don't know. But it looked fairly strange running away half-changed."

"Think Mrs. Norris will fancy it?"

"If it was a boy iguana to start, maybe. She'd have to be pretty desperate." Maria's smile was still slow to appear and a little shy, but lovely. Without thinking, Bill closed the distance between them with a kiss. Moments later, Maria looked at him, startled but not displeased. 

"I'm surprised that you've never been told before how beautiful you are," the redhaired man whispered. "I wish I could stop time here and be next to you always."

"I would stop time to stay with you." Maria stroked the side of Bill's face with a gentle hand, almost sadly. "There's a war coming, and every day we see the preparations more and more. If it isn't Dumbledore honoring the dead, it's Professor Tyler forcing us to think."

"Force you to think?"

"It's just that the fears and worries that we all have, she takes them and makes us all fear them at the same time. She showed us something so horrible and true that we couldn't hide that it scared us, and when we all saw that everyone around us was scared, we were petrified. Then as if it's not bad enough, she throws the real twist in. It's one thing to suspect You-Know-Who and your parents are wrong when you're all alone. It's quite another to see the proof together with all the other Death Eaters' kids. I heard Millicent crying today after her class."

"You don't like what she's doing to you all?"

"I think it's the most brilliant thing any teacher's ever done to the Slytherins. It's only horrible having to be the target of it." Maria sighed. "I hate living in this time, so much that I hate living."

"Will you stay with me, then?" Bill asked gently, kissing her cheek. 

"If I can…" Maria sighed and smiled. "I will."

Minutes of kisses, caresses and whispered words later, Maria got the buttons of Bill's shirt undone. Hers had been loose to start, and the hugs between the two had nearly finished what wrongly-sewn buttonholes had begun. They paused, undershirt and bra, black jeans and skirt the only barriers.

"I can't help wanting to-"

"I'm not afraid."

**************************************************


	30. A Vile Plot or Two

Chapter Thirty: A Vile Plot or Two

"Is the spell ready, Luciuss?"

"Nearly, my Lord. When is it required?"

"Not for many monthsss. Continue. Wormtail, will you be able to do asss you were inssstructed?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Then you will do ssso, this evening."

"Yes, my Lord."

Lucius didn't know what Wormtail's part in the plan was, as Voldemort had become suspicious of spies lately. The snakish Dark Lord turned next to his second most trusted Death Eater.

"Severruss, have you prepared the potion?"

"Which, my Lord?"

"The one of which we ssspoke."

"It is nearly ready, my Lord. A question of necessary ingredients."

"Of courssse. Are you in need of fundss?"

"A little, yes."

"Luciuss, give Severuss the money needed later."

"Yes, my Lord."

About half an hour later, Lucius confronted Severus in the library.

"There is a certain golden object which we both admire and love," he began cryptically. Severus understood perfectly and sighed. 

"Golden, yes. An object, however?"

"A dagger, newly unsheathed against our hip." Lucius made a gesture to indicate his side. "Did you know how sharp that dagger has become?"

"Sharper than I care to carry, old friend. I fear it has been on the wheel since last being lent to the female purpose."

"Can I trust you to blunt it without harm to the blade itself?"

"I have just the sheath." Severus smiled. "Leather lined with satin, strong as iron."

"Will it suit the bugs?"

"Admirably."

"Then I place the dagger in your care, old friend." Lucius stopped and drew a fat sack of Galleons from a drawer. "Here's the money I promised you. More than enough for ingredients –get yourself some of the books you love."

"Thanks, Lucius. I also have that which you required earlier." Severus handed a bottle to his friend.

"Dreamless Sleep?" Lucius looked relieved.

"With a few subtle improvements of my own."

"You are a brother among serpents, Severus."

"As are you, my friend."

**************************************************** 

Neville was having a bad morning.

It had been a bad night beforehand, with a freakish dream –nearly a nightmare- that he couldn't seem to forget even now, getting on breakfast. He was also dreading American Muggle Studies or 'Yankish' class, considering the main subject of his dream was Professor Cass Tyler. She and Ginny Weasley were now among the people he least wanted to meet today, right behind a pissed-off Snape and a nude Professor Trelawney. There were some things that tested even Neville's gift of keeping a straight face, and last night's dream was one of them. 

Normally he looked forward to Yankish and Herbology most of all, since Professor Sprout was letting him develop a new plant, which had healing properties and was started from his grandmother's begonias. He liked Yankish because Professor Cass had started lending him music, selections from a vast Muggle collection, and he was learning to love classic rock even as the oddball professor did. Scarcely a week went by where she didn't give him a chance to make up Snape's deducted housepoints with a paper on some Muggle song or band. His intimately researched thesis on the Beatles' 'Sgt. Pepper' had even earned him an 'A' and a suitably vague note of praise written home to his grandmother. Professor Tyler was almost as sympathetic as Professor Lupin, far cooler than Professor Lockhart, and easily the polar opposite of Snape. And now some dream was making him dread her class.

It had started out like any ordinary dream. He was in the Great Hall, having supper with the other Gryffindors. Very boring, until suddenly the lighting went all freakish and neat, like the time Ron and Harry had taken him to the Weird Sisters concert last summer. Instead of the high table, there was a huge, steel-frame-surrounded stage, with speakers the size of Hagrid's house in back. 

From somewhere there came the melodic, shredding sound of an electric guitar and bass dueling it out, and then Ginny Weasley appeared as the guitarist. She was illuminated in a reddish spotlight from above, which combined with the foggy stage to look like something out of a hair band's music video. There was another spotlight turned on, and Professor Tyler was playing the bass. For some reason, Professors Sinistra, Trelawney and McGonagall were dancing in short, sequined dresses in front of microphones, while a drummer who looked a hell of a lot like Dumbledore in sunglasses beat the hell out of a shiny kit in back. It was wild and insane, but Ginny's singing made it all stranger:

_"Live long enough you're bound to find  
Moonshine'll make a man go blind  
Never can tell what the brew will do  
But there's times you wind up feeling so fine!"_

Then Cass stepped a bit closer to her mike.

_"Some women seem to have the knack  
They'll tell you want to leave you black  
Never can tell who's playing for keeps  
Since everyone's a-holding you back!"_

_"I know your heart can take it!" _Ginny half-sang, half shouted. The chorus was in strident rock n' roll unison between the smooth alto Gryffindor and the sharp, Chrissie Hynde-ish professor:

_"Don't fight it!  
Don't fight it!"_

_"It'll do your heart so good!"_ Ginny sang like Grace Slick with a wand.

_"Don't fight it!_

_Don't fight it!"_

_"It'll do your heart so good!"_ Cass thumped the bass strings like hammers. When they sang together, it was Heart turned English and wizarding.

"Don't fight it!  
Don't fight it!  
It'll only do you good!"

As the rock n' roll orgy that was this dream progressed, Neville got the distinct impression that each of the females was singing to someone in particular. They were offering the advice of a friend, in sort of a 'Hey, Jude' vein, which was to stop fearing love. Maybe it was also an admonition to welcome someone close into their heart, as sappy as that sounded. Maybe there was something the dream meant to him personally, although Neville doubted it. 

Then a new idea occurred to him. There was a chapter in Unfogging the Future about dreams. He consulted his Divination text and, sure enough, made the discovery that this dream was what the book called lesser prophecy. There were a few other books mentioned in the bibliography, and with a studious air reminiscent of Hermione, Neville headed off to the library for the remainder of breakfast.

The idea that it could be indigestion never occurred to him.

************************************************************ 

"Damn!" 

This loud exclamation startled the two students who were still at work on a sanguinide potion. Cass was just as startled as Draco and Hermione, considering John almost never swore.

"Dear, what is it?"

"Narcissa's cover's blown. Severus has to get her out."

"Shit!" Cass came over to the video terminal and looked over her husband's shoulder. He in turn pulled out the headphones he was wearing and flipped the speakers on.

"I have just the sheath." Severus' voice echoed through the Shrieking Shack. "Leather lined with satin, strong as iron."

"Will it suit the bugs?" Lucius voice inquired.

"Admirably."

"Then I place the dagger in your care, old friend."

"That's my father's library!" Drac had come over with Hermione and was now looking, amazed, at the screen. "It's the most private place in our manor!"

"Well, it was," Hermione remarked with a little smirk.

"Dragon-boy, we've buggered your house like a prison film. There's not a private place left in there." Cass grinned.

"But the wards-?"

"Never covered Muggle-made mikes or microcams," John explained, tapping the keyboard of the computer control deck. Instantly, they were treated to a flash-by view of nearly every room in all of Malfoy Manor. "I really do like that one Quidditch poster in your room."

"My father never thought Muggles might get in?" Draco seemed a little disappointed in his dad. John smiled.

"Being colorblind isn't a bad thing, Draco. At least until somebody who happens to be green decides to take you out, that is."

"Where do you keep getting all of these electronic things?" Hermione asked. The Tylers certainly didn't seem wealthy, and there was no way the Ministry would pay for all of it. "My god, you haven't been-"

"Courtesy of our old friend Melanie Watling," Cass grinned happily. "She also supplied us with floorplans of every Death Eater's house in Christendom, let alone Britain."

"Well, that's humbling," Draco observed calmly. "Not only does every room in my house play directly on Yank TV here, you bought the parts from a hooker."

"Not all of them." John held up a small Circuit City bag. "Some of it's gotten on the legit."

"Some of it!" Cass giggled mischievously. "You don't mind, do you, coz?"

"Well…I'd feel more comfortable if there weren't a camera in my room."

"But that's where your dad does most of the nifty stuff," John protested. He tapped the keyboard and called up a tape of Lucius casting an intricate spell in the middle of Draco's room. "I think it's because you soundproofed it already. That way, your mom wouldn't suspect, were he to soundproof another room, not to mention she'd never go there with you at school."

"Jeez!" Draco walked back to the lab table where he was helping Hermione. "I think I'd rather be a Weasley, after all!"

They were nearly done with the second in a series of sanguinide potions. The first had produced some very interesting results when Hermione had tested the blood of Cass and Draco. They both had an allergy to the exact same subspecies of Atlantic kelp, which explained in part why yogurt made both of them kind of sick. The allergy test potion had found several other matches besides the kelp, which Hermione had only chosen as a test because of its abundance. They both got rashes from wool, swelling from bee stings, and neither tolerated the Vidalia onion well.

Normally, three allergic matches indicated the two subjects were what the textbook called 'of brother race." Hermione wasn't sure whether that meant they were both partly British or German or something, or whether they were distantly related. Cass had merely smirked at this news and begun jokingly calling Draco 'coz,' while Draco frowned thoughtfully and then shrugged. After all, it was about as likely as the Pope on a pogo stick (direct quote from Cass,) that they were anything but cousins. Cass was, after all, in spite of everything, a Yank.

Or so the werewolf believed. John had informed Hermione of the fact that Cass's mother had been attacked in Britain. Since the potion results of yesterday, she had been suspicious. While she and Draco were openly working on a potion to test, simply enough, hair color, she was also working on the Sanguinus Veritas potion –the Truth of Blood. The textbook described it thus:

'Sanguinus Veritas, the 'Truth of Blood,' more commonly called the Proof-Of-Blood potion, is most commonly used in tests of paternity. It can also determine magical heritage, degree of magical ability, presence of lycanthropy or other gene-altering diseases, or a host of other conditions, merely by including an ink antigen of a specific kind. (Refer to Table 4-IIB, page 206.)'

It was a tricky potion, but she dared not include Draco in her endeavor. Who knew what the results would show, and whether Cass would want anyone to know who she really might be?

******************************************************* 

"Ginny?"

"Yeah, Bill?"

"I need your advice on something."

The petite redhead didn't even look up from her book.

"Transfiguration or girl trouble?"

"You remind me of Mom." Bill frowned and sat down by his sister with a sigh. "Alright, it's girl trouble. But not just with any girl."

"An exceptionally ugly one who won't stop grabbing you on the arse?"

"Gods, no! She's beautiful and clever and witty and-" Bill stopped short as he noticed his sister's mischievous smile. "Well, I like her a lot."

"And yet she grabs you on the arse. Paging Doctor Freud."

"Ginny!" Bill frowned in frustration, despite a smile sneaking onto his face at the joke. "I like this girl very much."

"Like-like or like-like?"

"I'm afraid I've lost touch with primary-school terminology," Bill replied acidly. Ginny sighed and put down the book.

"Alright, do you enjoy spending time with her?"

"Yes."

"Do you like her conversation?"

"Yes."

"Is she intelligent?"

"Yes, very."

"Is she pretty?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel your loins burn with passion at the though of embracing her womanhood?"

"Virginia Weasley!" Bill went violently red. "What the sod have you been reading to learn such terms?"

"Bodice-rippers. I can write 'em, too."

"Merlin's arse!" Ginny smirked at her brother's discomfort and then smiled gently.

"Is she the best-friend type or the fiancee type?"

"I'd love for her to be fiancee."

"Alright. You like-like her." Ginny pulled a bit of string from her pocket and began to play cat's-cradle absently. Bill knew that she thought better when her hands were occupied. "So on what endeavor do you require my august counsel to aid you in?"

"For chrissakes, Ginny…" Bill finally wound up grinning. "Alright. I want to tell her I love her –because I do."

"Okay. Have fun doing it." Ginny turned the string design around as if that were that. Bill scowled at her. "Oh, you want my advice on how to do it? How fascinating." Another scowl. "Okay, big brother, little sister's here to help."

"You are deeply disturbed."

"And you have a ponytail. What House was she in?"

"Was?" Bill went a little red. "Er…"

"Bilius Arthur!" Ginny sat up excitedly, shooting the cat's-cradle across the room. "Tell me that you've grown a spine at last? Dating a student? Fancy what Mum and Dad would think!"

"Oh, they're a great pair to talk!" Ginny began almost to chirp with laughter.

"So, what House is she? Do I know her?"

"Not likely." Bill frowned darkly. "She's a Slytherin."

"Oh, holy fuck." Ginny's expression dropped like a name at a Ministry party. "You're the handsome redheaded gallant. We all though it would be Ron or one of the twins." She grinned again excitedly. "Won't Lavender be pleased!"

"It isn't Lavender!"

"I know. It's Maria Elaine Catesby, born February twelfth, 1978, at Blodgershire, England. Favorite sports are Quidditch and equestrienne, favorite subjects are Muggle Studies and Arithmancy, favorite foods are broccoli soup and fish n' chips. She has a scar on the bottom of her left foot from a shell she stepped on during a visit to the seaside in August 1984, as well as a slight burn on her right arm from a cooking accident in June 1986. She is a member of Slytherin House and her best friends are her second cousin Blaise Zabini, her studying partner, Hermione Granger, and myself, fellow lover of smutty books. Do you want to know her vital statistics or do you already?"

Bill was floored.

"And you've suspected this for how long?"

"A month, since Lavender predicted a redheaded gallant and she got all blushy. Normally Lavender's about as effective as Mom an' Dad's birth control, but the 'handsome redhead' comment really shook Maria up. Ron is at the Quidditch Cro-Magnon stage, Fred an' George really aren't her type, Percy's engaged to that other pole-up-arse ex-prefect, and Charlie's in Romania, plus I'm not a lesbian this week. That left you." Ginny smiled and started to buff her nails. "If it makes you feel any better, she loves you back. You could even take her to a Quidditch game and she'd still feel that way."

"How do you know?" Bill asked. Ginny looked at him like she might a slug.

"Because, dear brother, she is a female. I am also a female and we are friends. Haven't you heard of the lioness theory?"

"Girlfriends know these things?" Bill asked lamely.

"Per'cisely. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. Don't make me get all Paul McCartney on your ass." Ginny smiled encouragingly and lightly punched Bill's shoulder. "Come on."

"So what do you suggest, oh Sacred Presence?" Bill inquired with a grin. 

"I suggest you get yourself down to the Tylers' and get them to explain what a chick-flick is." Ginny could be very sarcastic. "Apart from that, I'd suggest a gift. Something that sparks her interest. Don't make me put a candle on my head and dance with the teapot here."

"A book of some kind?"

"That'd be Hermione."

"Quidditch stuff?"

"That'd be Ron."

"A pet cat?"

"You've already got one and she has an owl."

"Fancy clothes?"

"That'd be me."

"How about a movie and something neat, like a Muggle thing, that she's never seen before?"

"Perfect. Go seek out Professor Cass and enlist her aid."

"Thank you, sis."

"Any time, big dishy brother." Ginny kissed Bill on the cheek with a mischievous smile. "Go seek out and win your lady's heart."

Bill left the deserted classroom with a big grin on his face, and Ginny went back to 'Nights of Passion' by Esmerelda Sinn. She had just flipped to the best of the smutty bits when a wardrobe abruptly opened of itself and Professor Snape stepped out. She was, to put it mildly, startled.

"Gaah!"

"Don't mind me, Miss Weasley." Snape tucked his wand back into a sleeve. "I was just trying to get to Narnia."

"A little Dumbledorish of you," the fifth-year retorted.

"However, I do appreciate your advice." The fearsome professor walked over and looked carefully at the girl. "Only one question. What sort of book?"

******************************************************** 


	31. Summer Plans and Surprises

A/N: La brevità, gran pregio; ma come vive scrivo. La nota mia `e breve. Scrivo ancor tre righe a volo per italiano. Aspetti un momento, inglisce. Strega Brava l'storia nueva -lo trovo scintillante! Tocchiamo l'autor mia favorite! Here you go.

Chapter Thirty-One: Summer Plans and Surprises

"Sevvy?"

"Cassandra?" Snape didn't so much as look up from the potion he was making. Cass shut the door behind her and warded it.

"We picked up the chat you had with Lucy Malfoy in the library."

"As I hoped you would. Why do you think I stood near the microphone?"

"By all that dagger talk, he meant Narcissa, right?"

"You know that."

"Just checking. Exactly where are you going to stash her, mate?"

Snape raised his eyebrow at the American.

"Whatever happened to 'need-to-know basis' and 'constant vigilance?'"

Cass rolled her eyes.

"Don't confuse me with Moody, Sev. I've still got my whole nose, such as it is." The Yank picked up a knife and began to chop the phyllodron roots Snape had set out. "I worry about her. She's kind of nice."

"Little thinner. Isn't she?" Cass obligingly sliced the roots into thinner pieces and Snape continued. "We've been friends since I was very young."

"So I can trust you not to do something stupid like Godric's Hollow?" Cass faced Snape, the knife held almost threateningly in her hand.

"Just how much has old Mad-Eye briefed you on? Godric's Hollow was… _years_ before your time at least, either one."

"The second one wasn't, and as to the first, I _can_ read, you know." 

"Alright, no need to get snippy."

"_You're_ telling someone not to get snippy?" Cass couldn't restrain a grin.

Godric's Hollow, Scotland, had most notoriously been the site of Voldemort's first downfall when he encountered and tried to kill the infant Harry Potter. What many wizards of the age had forgotten, however, was that it was also the hiding place for many of Grindelwald's enemies in the nineteen-forties. There had been a leak of information to the Dark Side then, just as in 1981, and several key members of the Resistance had been killed. The Godric's Hollow incident, as it came to be called, was one of the worst blunders of the Light in its history, and it was the notoriety of the site as a _bad_ stronghold for hiding spies that had led the Potters to choose it, reasoning that Voldemort wouldn't think them stupid enough to hole up there. Every child in wizarding Britain knew their fate, and most wizards older than thirty knew of the earlier incident. Every spy worth their salt also knew of both.

"I'm supposed to be snippy. I'm a Slytherin."

"Speaking of," Cass changed the subject with a wry smile. "I'm going to get Sorted." Snape arched an eyebrow

"Interested in being a _student_ now?"

"Snarky git." The Yank slid the sliced roots onto some parchment before she weighed them. "It was Dumbledore's idea. They're re-Sorting all the professors, including next years Defense Against the Dark Arts, Muggle Studies, and that new class." Snape put down his spoon and looked quizzically at the Yank.

"You know who the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is to be?" Cass grinned.

"I _might_."

"Why, _you little…"_ Cass had the good sense to back away. "I asked your husband how to get secrets out of you and I will _not_ hesitate…"

"You wouldn't dare!"

_"Wouldn't _I?"

Sure enough, after a spirited chase around the Potions room and a momentary wrestle-fight in trying to get away, Cass found herself being tickled without mercy.

_"Stop!"_ Snape gave her a questioning look and continued until the werewolf was a writhing ball of mirth. "Okay, stop! Please! I'll tell you who the damn professor is…"

"You'd better."

_"Holy crap!"_

The 'interrogation' was thus interupted by a mortally shocked and quite possibly brain-damaged Ron Weasley, who had come to inquire about homework. _"Professor Snape!"_

"What is it you need, Weasley?" Snape asked, not missing a beat. Cass, surprised, didn't so much as speak or move.

"You two are…_holy crap!"_ Ron did, indeed, look very confused and disgusted. "Professor Tyler, you're _married_, and _he's..."_  The boy fumbled for a word. "He's fucking _Snape!"_

"Watch you language," Snape commanded absently.

"Ron, you've really dropped a bolt if you think _I'd_ schtupp your professor." Cass disentangled herself and stood up calmly. Ron still looked positively shocked. "It would be like you and _Ginny_ getting your freak on… just _really_ sick."

"Then why was he _pawing_ you like… like a Niffler in heat?" Ron stammered accusingly.

"He was _tickling_ me, the bastard! Wanted to know something." Cass shot a disdainful look at Snape, who was still on the floor, and began to brush herself off. "You'd think the Geneva Convention would ban that shit."

"Okay…this is just _really_ strange." Ron looked like he'd just stumbled into a mess of house-elves dancing naked in tea cozies. Cass rolled her eyes.

"Sevvy and I are _friends_, Ron. Co-conspirators." Ron still looked blank. "Oh, come _on,_ you don't think that Gryffindor-Slytherin thing goes all the way up to professors and heads of House?"

"It doesn't?" Ron actually looked a little crestfallen.

"Of course not." Snape managed to stand up. "Minerva McGonagall and I –well, I _still_ think she's a-"

_"Severus,"_ Cass warned.

"There really _isn't_ a great big feud," the professor explained. "And if Cassandra and I were having an affair, don't you think the silly nits in your House would be gossiping?"

"Good point," Ron agreed, smiling a little bit. "But what-all did you want to know that made you _tickle_ her?"

"Professor Lupin's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts again," Cass blurted out happily. Ron's face lit up like a sunbeam just as Snape's fell.

"_Really?_ Wait'll I tell Harry!"

"It's going to be announced at dinner, Ron. Let him be surprised." Cass was grinning until she noticed the black scowl covering Snape's face. "What? I thought you _liked_ making Wolfsbane potion."

"Not for _three_ of you."

"Well, Hermione's here to help, isn't she? And I might actually want to learn how sometime."

"Will you be teaching next year as well?" Ron asked hopefully.

"Not only _will_ I, but I'm taking over regular Muggle Studies while Professor Cleary's on maternity leave. Would you _believe_ she's expecting more?" Cass grinned, almost hiding the slight tightening of her smile. "And John's going to be doing some guest-lectures on lycanthropy and transfiguration things."

"Neat! Are there going to be more field-trips?"

"Is the sky up? Is Sevvy a Slytherin?" The affable Yank smiled at her student. "Keep your cards close on this, okay, Ron? Don't want to blow the surprise for the other Gryffs."

"No problem. I'll see you later, then." The redheaded teenager left, floating a few inches high with joy. Snape gave the werewolf a very stern and august scowl.

"Lupin?"

"In all his English werewolf glory." Cass picked up the knife and started on the calamander roots. "I take it you're not pleased?"

"Bright of you to catch that."

"Hey, at least some woman's taking over Astronomy."

"What woman?"

"Young, sort of thin, colors her hair a lot. I've never met her personally." Snape's jaw hit the marble floor. "What?"

"You had _better_ be joking."

"Sorry, Sev." The werewolf was by now shrugging haplessly. "I didn't catch her name."

"Does Nymphadora Tonks ring a bell?"

"I think… yep, that's her."

"Merlin's ghost."

"What?" Cass grinned happily. "You don't like her or something?"

With all the dignity he could muster, Snape set down his wand and rolled up his sleeves, an evil smirk dawning on his face. His fingers twitched in a tickly way even before he sprang.

"I'll give you something to laugh about!"

_"Not again!"_

**********************************************************

Bill had his instructions and a handful of Muggle cash he had got for Galleons at Gringotts. He was now in London and perfectly lost. All the landmarks he knew, he had seen in daylight, and it was now nighttime. He also suspected quite a few wrong turns had been taken in getting to …wherever he was now.

"Ma'am, could you direct me to-?" The woman 'humphed' and turned away from the man in robes. Bill looked down at his clothes and sighed. Honestly.

"Need some help, Weasley?" a voice from behind inquired. Bill spun around to see the speaker and was profoundly surprised; for there on the sidewalk, dressed in full Julia Roberts regalia, was a hooker. 

"How did you know my name?" he squeaked. The fishnet stockings and knee-high boots were giving him a fright. Melanie Watling smiled.

"I was sent to help you find your girl some Muggle stuff." Bill swallowed nervously as the hooker smirked. "I believe we both know a certain American?"

************************************************************** 

Hermione sat down to dinner with the other Gryffindors, looking pleased. Her pre-Animagus exam had gone very well and Professor McGonagall had awarded quite a few House points. Also, in Professor Sprout's class her asphodel plant had bloomed. It had been a very nice day and dinner was supposed to be one of her favorite foods. She was just laughing at one of Ginny's scandalous dirty jokes when she felt the telltale clench of claws on her shoulderbone. 

"Who's writing you from America?" Blaise inquired, looking at the owl's address ribbon. She and Maria preferred the Gryffindor table and joined the Lion house whenever they could for meals. 

"D'know," Hermione lied instinctively. Her parents' safety might hinge on nobody at Hogwarts' knowing where they were hidden. Not even Blaise could be trusted at the moment. "Likely some relative or something."

She accepted the letter and gave the owl a piece of her fried chicken. Sure enough, it was from her parents. Ginny, faithful friend that she was, distracted the table with her joke about the transvestite Auror and the toad so Hermione could read it undisturbed.

'Dear Hermione,  
Hope everything is going well at school. Don't study too hard for the Gecko tests!'

'N.E.W.T.s,' Hermione corrected mentally.

_'Your father and I are enjoying the nice weather here, now that it's stopped raining, and we plan to go the the Arts Festival here in Pittsburgh tomorrow. Mr. Alcott insists that it always rains for that, but I can't imagine how it could possibly. It's like a monsoon in this river town. At least the flowers are beautiful.  
According to your Professor Tyler's husband, John, who dropped by with news and your semester grades (his wife swiped them from your Head of House's office,) it is not a good idea for us to come home this summer. We were given the choice of sending for you to come out and stay with us here, or letting you stay with one of your professors. He also explained exactly what is going on back home, and to put it very bluntly, I did not like the idea of my only daughter involved in a _war_ of any kind!_

_Mr. Tyler, however, believes that you are necessary to the resistance effort, and he spoke very highly of your capacity to withstand the crises that may be at hand. While I am _exceedingly_ angry to discover exactly _what_ you have been doing for the past schoolyear, it is very gratifying to hear that you volunteered to fight such an obviously evil personage as What's-His-Name. Mr. Tyler has given us his word that you will be protected to the best of his ability, and he has also explained that you are functioning as some kind of researcher with computers and potions and such. I see nothing wrong with research, especially when it is for such a dire cause, and after much discussion your father and I decided to let you make the choice whether to stay or not. _

_Darling, this has not been an easy year for us, and I'm sure it has been harder on you, serving just behind the front lines of what may well be a titanic struggle on the side of good. Should you decide to stay, Mr. Tyler has made arrangements to guarantee your safety over the summer term. I am sure you remember your Grandmother's stories of the French Resistance during the Second World War, and your father and I agree you must have inherited something of her spirit to join in such a fight. Whatever you choose, know that we are very proud of you, and will support you in whatever you decide to do. We love you very much and wish youand your friends all the best, especially Harry and the Weasleys. (Would you send Molly our address here? I have some of the recipes she wanted and I'm very eager to try the sweater pattern she suggested.) _

_Your father and Mr. Alcott are working on a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle in the dining room while I work on the computer, knit, and read. We have also been working at the university, teaching in the school of dentistry, and I expect to get my American license to practice soon. It will be a nice change, and I've almost exhausted your Professor's collection of Nancy Drews. Did you know she has the whole series? There's a lot of Agatha Christie, too, and it's been lovely to get reacquainted with dear Poirot and Miss Marple. Don't neglect your reading if possible, and don't get too overworked. The side of good needs to relax once in a while, too. I know you are brushing your teeth every day, eating properly and getting plenty of exercise, as Mr. Tyler has promised you will be made to if you remain in Britain. _

_Good luck, dear. We are, as always, very proud of you._

_-Mom and Dad'_

'Well,' Hermione thought with a wry smile. 'At least they don't know _everything_ that's going on.'

There was a clinking sound from the High Table, silencing everyone in the Hall. Dumbledore put down his fork and stood up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have a few announcements to make. Firstly, with the warm weather of late, Mr. Filch has asked again that everyone please wipe their feet before entering the building. Secondly, I have the great pleasure to inform you that there will be three new Professors at Hogwarts next fall."

There was quite a bit of applause at that, not too much, but some.

"Professor Cassandra Tyler will be remaining as teacher of American Muggle Studies, which due to popular demand has been added as an elective course."

There was lots of applause at that.

"She will also be taking over the regular Muggle Studies classes for our Professor Cleary, who will be on maternity leave next year."

Whistles joined the applause.

"Professor Hagrid will be returning in time for next year's start of term, and Care of Magical Creatures will be back on the schedule."

Many Gryffindors stood and cheered.

"Our Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Moody will, unfortunately, be returning to his retirement next year. I'm sure he will be greatly missed."

There was less applause and quite a few disappointed 'aww's.

"As his replacement, our previous Professor of that subject will return. I am quite pleased to re-introduce Mr. Remus Lupin."

As Lupin walked shyly up to the High Table from the side doorway, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor in its' entirety stood and cheered. The cheering and applause continued for some minutes, until Dumbledore was obliged to tap his glass again.

"Professor Sinistra of Astronomy will also be taking her first maternity leave next term, which brings me to your second new professor, Ms. Nymphadora Tonks."

A pink-haired, affable-looking young woman joined Lupin at the High Table. There was some applause, though not quite as much as there had been for Lupin and Tyler, and she seemed quite happy, shaking hands with both werewolves. She also glanced at the Gryffindor table, and even with her nose having changed for the umpteenth time, Harry recognized the wink of the familiar Auror.

"Last, but certainly not least, I am pleased to introduce next year's senior class guest lecturer, Mr. John Tyler."

It certainly wasn't a good night to have a blistered hand. As soon as the Great Hall quieted down enough, Dumbledore motioned for Professor McGonagall to bring something from the hallway to her left.

"Now, students, since we have such a great number of new faculty for next year, I have devised a measure for some of you with gambling tastes to acquire spending money for the summer holidays." Professor McGonagall shot Dumbledore a look, and the old man shrugged. "After dessert, we will be having a Sorting, this time of the entire faculty and staff. It promises to be amusing, if nothing else, so let's all finish our dinner –including all the green vegetables."

The merry old Headmaster motioned for the meal to continue and the new professors joined the others, happily tucking in to the delicious food. Harry seemed too happy to be betting much, but Ron was risking every Galleon he had among the other Gryffindors.

_"Thirty_ says Professor Tonks is a Gryffindor."

"I've got twelve says Tyler's a Gryffie, too," Blaise offered.

"Which one?" Dean Thomas asked.

"Mrs."

"Aw, that's obvious."

"I bet she's a Ravenclaw," someone from the Hufflepuff table said, shaking hands with Blaise. "You're on."

"Mr. Tyler could be a Ravenclaw," Pansy Parkinson supposed. "Anyone want to say five?"

"Sure," Draco Malfoy replied. "I think he's a Gryffindor."

Betting went on for quite awhile, until finally the plates were cleared away. There was angel food cake with strawberries and whipped cream, but everyone seemed to be far more interested in the professors' possibilities. At last Dumbledore tapped his glass.

"Professor Severus Snape!" 

The dark-haired man slunk over to the stool and submitted to being re-Sorted. Naturally, the Sorting Hat called out 'Slytherin' within moments.

"Professor Flora Sprout!" The cheery lady was still a Hufflepuff.

Professor McGonagall set the Hat on her own head, but it didn't even touch her hair before yelling 'Gryffindor.' There was a ripple of laughter at that.

"Professor Remus Lupin!" 

The shy werewolf climbed onto the stool and submitted to the hat treatment. As he was declared a Gryffindor yet again, there were quite a few disappointed sighs from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. 

"Professor…" The pink-haired female raised an eyebrow pleadingly. She hated her first name. "Tonks!"

The hat didn't even go past her ears. She was a Gryffindor and Ron had won his bet. 

"Good thing," he whispered to Harry. "I haven't quite _got_ thirty Galleons."

"Professor John Tyler!"

The American had recently trimmed his shaggy hair and beard, and it was evident quite a few female students found him attractive, judging by the whistles. Cass had the grace to _not_ start singing 'na-na-na-na-na' or dancing about, but she did look her husband over with a quiet smile as Professor McGonagall set the Hat on him. A few moments passed, and the Hat called out "Gryffindor!"

Pansy Parkinson grumbled and handed her purse to Draco, who smirked and handed it back politely.

"Never mind."

"Professor Cassandra Tyler!"

There were cheers and encouragements from three of the House tables, with Slytherins only counting out their bets. Cass hopped onto the stool and waited as the Hat covered her eyes and nose.

Almost two minutes passed. Everyone in the Great Hall waited on tenterhooks. At last, the Hat shifted a little and opened its tear of a mouth.

_"Slytherin!"_


	32. Advice, Ideas, and an Owl

A/N: Well, I read the fifth book last night. I was awake 'til two and enjoyed it heartily. I also woke up my cats several times laughing. While the latest is my favorite so far, except maybe for the third one –I digress, it does require a bit of editing to the previous chapter. I have removed one character for reasons those who have finished the fifth will grasp, and inserted another. Since I can't explain much more without ruining it for everyone whose parents didn't go out at midnight and get the book, readers may want to hit the Previous Chapter button and see what changes have been made. Thanks! Here you go.  

Chapter Thirty-Two: Advice, Ideas, and An Owl

"I'm a _what?!"_

Well, it wasn't the best reaction to the results of a Sorting, but it seemed to be one of the funniest. Snape actually laughed with some of the other professors, but it was mainly to cover the fact that he was just as shocked as Cassandra had to be. Fortunately, she had had plenty of practice in covering up emotions, too. "Explains my winning streak at cards, eh, Sevvy?" the werewolf called jovially, the words almost drowned out by the laughter and whispers now filling the hall. Almost nobody caught the fact that her merry smile was entirely false.

The Gryffindor table was especially dumbstruck. Ron looked as though his mother had just announced her intention to pose nude in _Playwizard_. 

"How can _she_ be a Slytherin?" he asked numbly. "She's more Gryffindor than Professor McGonagall! Professor Cass _hates_ the Slytherins!"

"Not all of them," Hermione pointed out. "Look!"

The professors, _all_ of them, were leaving the High Table to sit with their sorted House. John stopped and kissed his wife before she could get away, and did so in such a manner that the entire female student body let out a collective gasp. Looking even dizzier than before, Cass reluctantly left John's side to head for the Slytherin table, squeezing his hand gently before she went. When she got to her seat among the Serpents, Snape and Malfoy gave her welcoming hugs, as did a somewhat vacant-eyed Goyle, who made the lean professor look as though some of her ribs were snapping.

"I did _not_ see that," Ron gasped.

"Goyle just copped a feel?" Harry asked.

"She let Malfoy hug her!"

"Ron, you nit, she hugged him back," Blaise pointed out. "They're _friends_."

"But…but he's…"

"He's a Malfoy. So? I've been friends with him for years." The calm Slytherin female picked up another strawberry and bit into it. "Don' ta' fingsso damser rously."

"Huh?"

"Don't take things so damn seriously," Hermione translated. "What is _with_ you lot and talking with your mouths full?"

"Farry." Blaise gulped down some pumpkin juice before continuing. "Look, I'm toleratable and I'm a Slytherin."

"Tolerable," Hermione and Maria corrected absently.

"Right. So what's-a big deal 'at your fav'rite per'fessor is?" Blaise feigned a very accurate Yank accent. "She's still the Anti-Snape."

"She'd likely find that term funny," Mr. Tyler agreed, taking a seat by the Slytherin girl. "Hello."

"You don't think it's unusual that your wife turned out a Slytherin?" Harry asked.

"Nope." The American looked for something to eat. "Have you ever played cards with her?"

"Seriously," Ron added. "The Slytherins are really dodgy…it _is_ a shock."

"Has it not occurred to you that Cassie's really dodgy, too?" John asked, putting some angelfood cake onto a plate. "Just because you can keep a secret, break rules, and be a bit on the clever side doesn't mean you're a bad person, right?" 

It was a very good point. The Gryffindors had all kept secrets and broken rules.

"Still…" Ron pressed. "Don't you have to be a pureblood for Slytherin?"

"I'm a pureblood, if you look at it," John pointed out. "Tylers have been wizards _and_ werewolves since before the American Revolution. But I'm still a Gryffindor."

"That's the thing. Is Professor Cass pureblooded?"

"I don't know an' don't care." John stared directly at Ron as he said this. "She's the woman I love and that's all I know."

It was certainly a Gryffindor attitude to the surprise; but Hermione knew what would be happening soon. John Tyler was a creature of abject emotions, but Cass was not. She would want to know who she was, no matter what it took to find out, and even whether the truth was terrible. Hermione also knew whom the professor would be asking first for help.

******************************************************** 

The sixth-year Potions project was done, but Hermione still found herself in the dungeon at eight o'clock most nights. She was just opening the door when a weird green haze spread across the walls, moving like water covering a floor. It felt very strange; making her stomach hurt slightly, but after a moment it was gone. She stepped into the Potions room, confused.

"What was that?"

"I don't know." Severus already had his wand out and was looking like he might duel the walls. "It felt like a warding spell, though."

"Is Dumbledore making the castle safer?"

"Possibly." The professor's face suddenly lit up. "I think I know what it is. The Yanks want to make electrical things work on the Hogwarts grounds."

"So it won't do that again?"

"Not likely." Severus closed the classroom door, this time locking it manually as well as with a spell. 

"You don't want company tonight?" Hermione asked.

"I don't expect any but you." The wizard took off his heavy outer robes and unbuttoned his coat, revealing an ordinary black t-shirt. "My students are under the impression that I have a migraine, the rest of the staff are all otherwise occupied, and the Tylers are –erm…busy."

"Ah." Hermione smiled. "Full moon."

"No, that's tomorrow." Severus smiled mischievously. "Something about their anniversary." 

_"Oh."_ Neither felt the need to pursue _that_ topic. "What potions are you working on tonight?"

"I thought we'd set up some Wolfsbane to stew for tomorrow, and maybe the Veritas Sanguinus." Hermione was startled.

"Why that?"

"Dear, I've seen you reading, I've seen what you're reading, and I can tell which part of the book you're in. I'm also worried about her, too."

"Then you suspect…?"

"It's quite possible." Severus frowned. "A little more possible than I like to think about."

There was a long silence.

"Severus…when you were a Death Eater…there were times…?" Hermione didn't want to ask what she was thinking. Severus ran a hand through his black hair and sighed.

"There were times when I tortured and used potions. There were also times when I used terrible curses." The lean man shut his eyes for a moment, then looked at Hermione. "But I never…there's no chance of that. I couldn't inflict that kind of pain, somehow."

"I'm not sure I'd hate you if you had. It was a horrible time."

"You would," Severus replied shortly. "I spoke to Narcissa awhile ago, and she suspects the same thing we do. You can't imagine…maybe you can. She was in love with Lucius, for all his faults, and now, even when there's more reason than ever to loathe him, she still can't help caring for that man. I don't know what kind of person you'd have to be to feel that way, but I hope you aren't one. There's too much pain in it."

Hermione took Severus' hand in her own. It was larger, had longer fingers, but the two seemed to fit.

"I already am. But you've never given me any reason to feel pain in loving you." She brushed a bit of his long hair away from his face and stroked his cheek. "I do love you, you know."

"If you knew what it feels like to hear those words…" Severus smiled softly and kissed the only person who had dared to say them to him. "I love you even for knowing them."

"I want you to survive this war, Severus."

"I will. For the first time, I want to survive." The professor kissed her again, than went to his desk and opened the drawer. "I have something for you." Hermione looked a bit surprised and Severus smiled. "Miss Weasley suggested you would like a book, so I suppose this is sort of close." There were two leather-bound volumes, one in dark brown and one in black, which Severus set on the desk. "Choose one of these."

Hermione stepped over and touched the black book.

"Reminds me of you." Severus smiled.

"I chose the brown for the same reason. Turn it over." Hermione found her name had been embossed on the book's cover. Severus turned his over and showed his own. "Open it."

Hermione complied, but the book was blank. Astonished, she smiled quizzically.

"Are these what I think they are?" Severus smiled.

"So much more reliable than owls, under the present circumstances." There had been more reports of intercepted owls lately than ever, and these two of all people needed secrecy. "Will you write to me this summer?"

"Every day."

"You know whom you'll be staying with?"

"The Tylers."

"As I'd hoped. Potter is staying with me." Severus frowned momentarily and Hermione smiled at his distaste. "Noone can read these but you and I. If Cass or John or anyone else opens yours, it will simply look like something they've already read. Whatever you write to me appears in mine, and what I write to you will show up in yours." Severus smiled and opened his, writing something very quickly. "Look and see."

Hermione opened her copy and smiled.

"'Quoi q'uil arrive, je't adore.'"

"You _do_ speak French?"

"Only a little." Smiling, Hermione picked up a quill and wrote a reply. Severus read it and raised an eyebrow.

"German?"

"Bulgarian."

"That, actually, is one I don't speak." Severus kissed Hermione on the cheek. "What does it mean?"

"The same thing as yours. I love you, come what may."

A few moments later, Severus clutched his arm and scowled. 

"Bloody miserable…"

"Will you be back soon?"

"I don't know." Severus kissed her once more and then began to quickly draw out a map on a blank parchment. He handed it to Hermione. "Upstairs, on the second floor, there's a deserted classroom with a picture of a dragon by the door. Inside you will find a wardrobe filled with my old robes. In the pocket of the pinstriped set I lent Cass, you will find a glass marble. It's a Portkey."

"So that's how you get everywhere!"

"Flitwick set it up. I can get there from several places, and there are a good many Portkeys to various places there." Severus kissed his secret girlfriend. "If I'm not back by ten, go to the Portkey."

"Alright." Hermione kissed him back, being just as nearly addicted to it as Severus. "You know, Ginny said you had gone off your nut, trying to get to Narnia." Hermione smiled. "I didn't know you liked Muggle children's books."

"And _who_," Severus asked, looking scandalized, "told you C.S. Lewis was a _Muggle?"_

******************************************************** 

_From the diary of Maria Catesby, May twenty-third:_

               I'm in my room in the Slytherin dormitories. I had to sneak in so Blaise didn't see the marks on my face. If I didn't have Bill, I would have probably not come back to Hogwarts. Gods, what do I tell him? Will he believe I didn't want it, that Milton had his friends with him and I was outnumbered? I feel so sick…  
********************************************************** 

_From the diary of Cassandra Antigone Tyler, May thirtieth:_

If it isn't one thing, it's another, I guess. At least 'work'll be over in a few days. I went to a party last night in one of the deserted rooms, with some Gryffies and nice Slythies, but mostly Ravenclaws. (There might've been Hufflepuffs, to, but I didn't speak to any personally.) Maria Catesby left really suddenly and I found her in Moaning Myrtle's, puking like she'd just had one of those ungodly Weasley class-cut candies. You know, etiquette books should really include what one properly says to someone who's just been re-introduced to their last meal. What I said is definitely in the Tactless Tyler Hall of Fame: "Was it the cheese dip?"

               Maria burst into tears. I fucking hate it when that happens! I didn't mean to be blunt or inconsiderate or anything, and suddenly I had one of Hermione's mates pulling the waterworks. Drat me anyway. Then Moaning Myrtle (hereinafter referred to as the See-Through Hosebag,) started getting all chipper and telling me how Maria's been throwing up for days. 

               Alright, here is when I really blew it. I immediately deduced with my Sherlock Holmes-like powers of wit that Maria had an eating disorder. I made a remark to the effects of 'But you look great!' and she immediately got worse. I had never wanted to see someone vomit, sob and swear at the same time, and I doubt I'd enjoy an encore performance. The See-Through Hosebag let out a giggle, though, and started going on about how that wasn't why and 'that poor girl's you-know-what…' until I really wanted to call for an exorcist. Maria was crying, still, which only got me more pissed. Not a good combination.

               I will admit I probably said some truly hideous things to the See-Through Hosebag. Most were to the effect of 'not even Peeves would want to (swearword) you,' 'at least Maria's pretty enough for guys to notice her without (swearword) –ing themselves in revulsion' and lastly, but most triumphantly, 'who asked you anyway, you bloated, acniferous sack of translucent woe!' (If 'acniferous' isn't really a word, tough beansies. I was pissed.) Then I told her to go to hell. I think she may have actually attempted it, given how she dove into the toilet and started flooding things. Remind me never to die in anyplace less than an amusement park.

               Maria _is_ in the situation the Hosebag said she was. Now, if that poor kid was a Gryffindor, she could go to Minerva McGonagall and at least have a sensible human to explain things to. But _Sev?_ Severus 'King-of-the-Snarky-Bastards' Snape? I know him and I know he's not quite the git he seems, but if I didn't, I'd sure be scared as hell to talk to him. So I pretty much became the Voice of Reason for Maria. (Not a role I'd ever imagined myself in. Not at all.) After I stopped her crying and got her to a warded room (the very _walls_ have ears and those paintings gossip like mad,) I got her to explain.

               I thought my life was bad. Really I did. I have never been more fucking wrong. Maria was raped, by that miserable, pencil-dicked…  
_Approximately twenty-five words omitted, Mrs. Tyler evidently having let fly the nether side of a Pittsburgh vocabulary.  
_               …Milton Blodgett, whom I intend to kill personally, taking great care and using nothing less than a motorized Cuisinart. If that were the only snag, I would suggest she have Sev (or better yet, 'Mione,) make a termination potion on the spot. I don't know what the British wizarding stance on abortion is, but where I come from there are _circumstances_, and this is one of them. But that's not all. Oh, no. Maria is horribly, tragically in love with her professor, Bill Weasley, and apparently they're a bit more advanced in their relationship than… well, how the sod does one put this kindly? She doesn't know who the father is, and she won't terminate Bill's child. So she's screwed either way. I thought I liked being a teacher up 'til this point.

               I gave her the best advice I could. I suggested she report Milton, tell Bill, see Madam Pomfrey, and let me know the Slytherin password. (I should really know it anyway; I am one, after all.) She asked me why. I explained that bastards like Milton Blodgett don't deserve to stay at school, Bill will most likely support her in whatever she chooses, and if Dumbledore doesn't agree with my idea of punishing rapists, I want to emasculate the little slimeball myself. She almost smiled at that. I also told her that she didn't have to keep the baby, even if she did decide to _keep_ it, meaning have the kid, but not get stuck raising it. I even offered to adopt it myself. (Not a bad idea, seeing as how I can't have my own.) She did a lot of crying, hugged me, and went back to her room. 

I don't know what she's going to do, but I know what I _intend_ to, as soon as Severus gets back from wherever he's gotten to. I am 'obligated by the rules' to rat out a kid to their Head of House, and in this case I think I'd do it anyway. I'm also going to ask Minerva McGonagall's advice. (She's been a teacher since God was in short pants and is very wise anyway.) I don't know about Dumbledore. He's so busy with the war, and this might only stress him out worse. 

You know, I'm a freakin' _spy_ here. I'm supposed to make sure Voldemort doesn't off these kids, and that's about it. And _past_ that, if I hadn't used the Time-Turner, I'd be their age now. It is scary as hell to have a kid like Maria turn to me for advice, especially in a situation like hers. It's awful to have people needing you. I liked it fine when it was just bugging mansions and doing spy stuff and making the sixth-years think, but now I think I've distinctly lost my taste for it. Go figure.

*********************************************************** 


	33. The Order of The Ferret

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Order of the Ferret

_"Merlin's ghost!"_

"I honestly don't know what happened," Hermione gasped, looking frightened and not a little revolted at the sight before her. "I was bringing these ingredients down to Professor Snape's and I found him there…"

"Yes," Professor McGonagall looked a little ill herself. "Where –how exactly was he arranged?"

"He was all curled up in a ball, next to the classroom door," Snape explained. "I think he was trying to crawl to me."

"Well, you are the b- …boy's Head of House." Madam Pomfrey had just been listening to McGonagall's account of Milton's expulsion meeting, and she didn't look precisely pleased to be the one expected to patch him up. "Minerva, would the Gryffindor kids do this?"

"No chance," the Professor and Hermione replied in unison.

"Besides, apart from Harry and I, there aren't any Gryffindor students here," Hermione added.

"Then it's not an inter-House assault…you don't think perhaps…"

"It wasn't You-Know-Who," Snape interjected. "I would know. It seems to me that it may be the work of a few of Ms. Catesby's friends who heard about the –erm, reasons for his expulsion."

"But how would they have known, Severus?" McGonagall inquired gently.

"I certainly haven't told anyone. The person who informed me…well, that person used a certain charm to make sure I respected Maria's privacy."

"I only found out today," Hermione added. "Maria told me herself."

"Then that leaves Miss Zabini and Mr. Malfoy under suspicion," Madam Pomfrey observed. "Though this doesn't look…Minerva, these wounds are non-magical."

"What?"

"There's not a hex on him. It's all been done with fists and perhaps a stick."

"Cass," Hermione and Severus spoke in unison. 

"Nope. Not me." A curtain was shoved aside, revealing the professor, perched and smirking on one of the hospital wing's many beds. "Though I wish I _hadn't_ been getting my leg patched up."

The unconscious Blodgett chose that moment to stir, and Madam Pomfrey humanely anaesthetized him with a spell.

"She's been up here the entire time?" Snape asked, indicating Cass a little suspiciously.

"Yes, of course, Severus."

"I fell off a broom this morning and snapped my leg. Draco helped me up."

"And where is he?"

"Right here." Cass shoved aside another curtain. There sat Draco. He had the cheek to wave and smile quite happily.

"If you two were up here the entire time, what happened to Milton Blodgett?" Hermione asked. "Blaise is over at the Weasleys' with Ginny and Harry's at Hagrid's. Who else would do this?"

The two Slytherins managed to look cheerfully innocent.

"I imagine he offended Peeves and got thrown down the steps, maybe?" Draco suggested to Cass, who shrugged.

"Or perhaps the house-elves mistook him for some dust."

_"Merciful peace!"_ Everyone jumped. Madam Pomfrey had just been trying to heal Milton and suffered a severe shock. "Minerva, he's- he's been…"

"Good _lord_." The professor had also gone quite pale. "Draco, I know you and Cassandra didn't have any hand in this. No Hogwarts student would ever…pardon me."

Professor McGonagall had ducked behind one of the multitude curtains. Judging by the sound, she had just become reacquainted with the morning meal.

"What exactly has been done to him?" Snape inquired. A look at Poppy's disturbed and disgusted face answered him. "Ah." 

There was a long pause.

"Can't says I don't blame whoever _did_ do it, though," Draco remarked chipperly.

**************************************************** 

"He was _what?"_

Cass, Draco and Hermione had joined Harry, Blaise and Ron at the Weasleys' house. At present they were all stuffed into Ron's bright but small bedroom, where everything clashed with his Chudley Cannons stuff. Fortunately, Ginny had just brought up some more cookies. Blaise especially was enjoying the news of Milton Blodgett's beating. "Who do you suppose did it?"

"Haven't a clue," Cass remarked, looking deliberately innocent. "Are those chocolate chip, Ginny?"

"He definitely deserved it, though," Ginny agreed with Blaise, passing the cookie plate. "If I'd've done it, though, I'd've put them up on display in the Common Room."

Draco, Ron and Harry flinched as one.

"Or a goalpost." Blaise grinned evilly. "Or perhaps preserve them as Snitches."

"Too damn small," Cass added with a snort.

"I don't think this is really something we should be larking on about," Hermione protested, looking rather stern. "Yes, Milton Blodgett's a horrible person and he likely deserved what he got and worse, but what if whoever did it decides to go after one of us for some little piddly thing?"

"They won't," Draco and Cass replied in unison.

"Then it was you two?" Hermione had gone quite ashen. "How on earth could you-?"

"Oh, we didn't _do_ it," Cass explained. "Though we undoubtedly wanted to."

"We had just gotten down from the Hospital Wing when we saw him getting…well…" Draco looked rather sick at the memory.

"_How_ did you get down, though?" Blaise asked. By way of reply, Cass held up her illegal Time-Turner. "Oh."

"We refer to it as 'pulling a Hermione,' actually," the professor explained. "But either way, it really wasn't us. We saw two girls that we'd never seen before do it."

"What did they look like?" Ron asked. 

"One had red hair that looked just like yours, but it wasn't Ginny. She had green eyes and earrings with fangs on 'em. The other one had black hair and a nose like Snape's. Sort of scary-lookin'."

"She was hot," Draco observed bluntly.

"Who were they?"

"I don't know. But there was another girl who came around the other corner and told them they had to go. She had the Time-Turner."

"So they could be anyone?"

"Yeah, and from any time." Cass looked a little disappointed at this. "So we can't even send them a thank-you note."

"Or a Howler," Hermione added bitterly. There was a bit of laughter at both remarks, but suddenly Harry paused.

"Professor?" 

"Yeh?"

"What'd the third girl look like?"

"That was the weirdest part of it, Potter." Draco frowned. "The one with the Time-Turner was a dead ringer for _her_ husband." He indicated Cass with his thumb.

"So maybe they were from the future?" Blaise asked. "Your daughters, Professor Cass?"

"Not unless I somehow shag Snape and Ron as well." Cass had bitterness in her voice mixed within the wit. Hermione knew why, and so did Ginny.

"I'm betting on the past. It sounds like my mum and some friends of hers." Ginny thought for a second. "The black-haired one could be Snape's mother, and the one that looked like Mr. Tyler was likely _Elaine_ Tyler. Sort of a distant second or third cousin."

"And _your_ mother would emasculate someone?" Draco asked. Ginny shrugged.

"Or perhaps my aunt."

"Either way, it was _very_ strange," Cass said concludingly. "I for one am rather pleased, if a bit grossed-out, at the events of this morning, and in the event that any of us should ever meet females matching those descriptions, it would be my intention to take them out for a butterbeer." She crushed a soda can between her hands and set it down with a mild 'tap,' indicating the end of a very gross subject. "Now, on to business. I believe Secretary of Mischief Ginny has the floor."

Blaise and Harry both tapped their soda cans on the bedpost.

"Hear, hear."

Ginny stood calmly and readjusted her sitting pose before addressing the assembled few:

"It is my motion that we name the herein gathered group."

"Motion addressed," Hermione said authoritatively. "Do we have a second?"

"I second the motion," Blaise replied.

"Motion seconded. All in favor?" There was a quick, unanimous hand-count. "Right. All suggestions for a name shall commence."

"Why we can't just say 'let's make up a name' and be done with it," Draco groused. "How about the Inter-House Committee on Resistance?"

"Isn't that a bit pompous?" Hermione asked.

"You're one to talk."

"The Order of the Snow Owl?" Ron suggested. "Like the real Order, but Hedwig could be our mascot."

"The Order of the Phoenix sounds like Fawkes trying to have pizza in," Cass observed. "'Hello, Lorenzo's? I'd like a large pizza with extra halibut and lemon drops on half.'"

"How did you know Fawkes likes halibut?" Harry asked.

"Oh, come on! You don't think professors don't get lectures, too?" Cass frowned. "I was in real trouble for that one field trip."

"Anyway," Hermione tapped her soda can on the bed. "Does anyone have any other suggestions for our name?"

"The Order of the Ferret," Blaise offered. Immediately the room exploded in laughter and Draco's ears went red. Cass, however, looked inspired.

"How clever! I like that, yes!"

"Do you know why she brought it up?" Draco asked.

"It's a wonderful name! The Order of the Ferret…" The Yank was clearly lost in one of her idealistic moods. "Yes, and it suits us, too. We are resisting the hunters, but not by straightforward methods. We are burrowers, thieves, spies…" Cass had actually assumed a ferret pose, hands up at the wrist like paws. "Ruthlessly we nibble the cobras of tyranny!"

"Nibble?"

"Cobras?"

"Ferrets kill snakes, you nit," Cass explained to Ron. "And who's the biggest snake around?"

"Moldy-Voldy!" Hermione and Ginny cried.

"Right!" By now Cass was on her feet. "So the Phoenix is fighting! The Phoenix fights nice! They need somethin' lowdown, somethin' loaded with vice!"

"Did you know she did poetry?" Ron whispered in Harry's ear.

"It's past the time for wings and claws!  
The time has come to break some laws!  
The Ministry's crippled, but Yanks are on loan  
And now dear old Albus has _us_ for his own!" 

"Cass, what have you had to drink today?" Hermione asked.

"Some of this soda, why?"

"It's Weasleys' in her can, actually," Ginny confessed with a grin. "I couldn't resist."

"But still! Bursting into song aside, the ferret is really a noble beast!" Everyone stifled some kind of laugh. "Come on! …All right, maybe it's ignoble. But ferrets _are_ clever and shifty and they _do_ eat snakes."

"All in favor?" Hermione asked. Everyone but Draco put up a paw. "Right. We are now the Order of-"

It was simply too much. Lost in giggles, Hermione was incapable of speech.

"I don't see what's so all-fired funny," Draco frowned.

"Me neither," Cass replied, watching everyone but them roll about the floor. "But at least they're amused, eh what?"

************************************************** 

_Severus,_

_Remember when you mentioned that a student force in backing of the Order might be a good idea? You great idiot, did you have to say that in front of Cass? Blaise Zabini, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron and Ginny Weasley and I are now the Order of the Ferret. Sounds ridiculous? It is. It seems so far to be mostly a lot of kids who are either frustrated at being too young for the real Order or frustrated at having Death Eaters for parents. That mad Yank put Ron and Harry in charge with me, (mainly to keep Harry occupied, I think,) and Draco and Blaise are Ministers of Espionage. _

_Ginny is Secretary of Mischief, and her job is to invent and supply distractions of the student body when necessary. Ron is Keeper of Keys and Games, which means that he has all the computer passwords for the Muggle stuff we use, plus he has the key to the cabinet of Muggle board games at the Shrieking Shack. (Literal, isn't she?) They also communicate with Fred and George, who are doing something not only with 'us kids,' but also the American Aurory._

_Harry is in charge of orders from Dumbledore in name, but what Cass really has him doing is making snacks and such for the new Order. Molly Weasley and she had a Little Chat, and now Harry is being taught how to cook with magic. It seems to be getting his mind off things rather well. He wasn't looking forward to staying with you, no offense, but at least when you get back he will know how to make everything you like._

_Isn't this childish? We're all whistling in the dark and making up funny clubs, partly because of the war and partly because of what's happened lately with the kids in our class. I think it was Maria that got Ron and Draco not to fight anymore. As soon as Ron saw how angry (alright, furious,) Draco was about what that scum Blodgett did to her, I think he realized he was human, too. Harry still doesn't trust him very much, but I don't blame him there. To be honest, I don't quite trust Draco, but Cass does, and that keeps us quiet on the matter._

_I don't think there's very much doubt of what we suspected in terms of Cass' parentage. She and Draco are almost always together with John away, and the similarities in the pair of them are startling. They finish each other's sentences, gesture similarly, and now that they're together so much, their accents are starting to shift. Draco sounds more American and Cass more English all the time. If it wouldn't be so terrible to have Lucius Malfoy as a father, I don't think Cass would mind being Draco's sister, nor he mind being her brother. They're certainly getting along well enough._

_An hour ago, though, after Draco had gone home, Cass didn't seem as calm. The whole thing with Maria's really affected her, and I think she knows something we don't. It could also be the fact that she thinks she can't have kids herself. Blaise got an owl earlier, and the baby's due in October, which means Maria won't be back at school for most of seventh year, and that really pissed Cass off, as well. We also found out that Maria's family is forcing her to marry that bastard. Right now Cass is drinking herself insane with Blaise, because the owl forbade her to interfere. I would be doing something similar, except I have you to write to. Damn those worthless Slytherins!_

_Dear?_

_Severus?_

I just opened the book a moment ago. I heard what the Catesbys and the Blodgetts are doing.

_Can't you do something?_

There's nothing that can be done now. The wedding took place at the Ministry twenty minutes ago. Fudge officiated.

_Reason #412 to hate his guts._

_You've been with the Yanks too long._

_You're one to talk about being snarky._

_Are you crying, dear?_

_How can you tell?_

The pages have little blurry spots.

_Alright, I am crying. This shouldn't be happening._

If it makes you feel any better, it can't happen again. Susan Bones told Dumbledore that she intends to pass a resolution forbidding those kinds of marriages.

_A resolution. Wow. How effective._

Sarcasm? Maybe you should go and have something to drink.

Like what? The chrome-stripping, two-hundred-proof acid martinis Cass has in the fridge?

I was thinking more along the lines of the bottle of water in there, next to the ketchup.

_Why?_

Because the lid is a Portkey to my estate.

_And what is a Portkey to your estate doing in the Tylers' fridge? What if one of them drank it?_

John doesn't like bottled water because it tastes funny and Cass only drinks water if there are teabags and a quarter-pound of sugar floating in it.

Good point.

Besides, I suspected I might miss you a bit too much sometimes.

_Like now?_

_Like every day since term ended._

You know, you could have told me it was there.

I could have. But you really need it now.

I'll be there in five minutes.

I love you.

I love you, too.

************************************************************* 

When the sun rose over both the Snape estate and the Shrieking Shack, Hermione was at the first. Cass was in the Ministry of Magic, under heavy guard and awaiting trial. Unfortunately, one was too smashed and one was too sleepy to realize or discover this. One had spent a night winning fistfights with enemies, and as to the other…

Well, for both females, it would be a strange morning.

Cass was awakened by a loud, bellowing voice that managed on the fifth call to penetrate the blistering hangover. It was a guard with some dry bread and water, which immediately transformed to a Krispy Kreme donut and fresh coffee when he realized who his prisoner was. He had a young brother in Hufflepuff and wanted the professor's good will, if not maybe an autograph. He also rather admired the crime for which she had been hauled unceremoniously in during the preceding night.

Hermione was awakened by a series of long, well-placed and tender kisses. It was Severus. He hadn't made breakfast yet, but it soon became abundantly clear that food, no matter how sweet and sticky, would bloody well have to wait.

Cass would have killed for an aspirin –or six.

Hermione would have –well, nevermind.

John was patiently and intently listening to Blaise's explanation of exactly why Cass was looking at possible time in Azkaban.

Severus was patiently and intently –forget it.

Right about eight o'clock, Cass was _really_ missing John.

Right about eight twenty-four, Hermione was _really_ kissing Severus. (One wonders _where_ she developed her technique. Exactly what all is _in_ that Restricted Section anyway? The mind boggles.)

Cass leaned against the bars of her prison bed's headboard and sighed with boredom.

Hermione…

You know what, let's end the chapter there.


	34. Shock, Spring, and Smutmonger

Chapter Thirty-Four: Shock, Spring, and Smutmonger

"Severus?"

"Tell me that wasn't just-" Snape mumbled to himself in surprise.

_"Severus?"_

John Tyler's voice was echoing about the halls of the admittedly rather nice manor house. Severus had never _less_ wanted to hear someone after him. As the door opened and the werewolf appeared, he wondered if these were circumstances fit for an Unforgiveable.

"Severus, there you are!" John looked fairly tense, which for him meant that either the Apocalypse was at hand or something god-awful had happened to Cass. There was nothing less that could shake him out of his wolfish state of calm. Suddenly, however, the location struck him. "This is where you sleep."

"Or try to," the Professor replied dryly. "Who's being eaten by a manticore that you're so upset?"

For a few seconds, John looked confused.

"Oh, there's not a manticore. Cassie's been chucked in jail."

_"What?"_

"You would not _believe_ why for, Professor Snape."

Merlin's ghost. A tense werewolf was one thing, Blaise Zabini quite another. "She swept in like the wrath of God or Professor McGonagall! _Six_ of those flobber-tripes wound up in St. Mungo's and everyone and their duck heard about Milton's not having any-"

"Blaise!" Snape was decidedly less than pleased, and the fear of his overnight guest walking in was only making things worse. The Slytherin obediently and meekly shut her mouth. "Explain yourself calmly and _coherently_, in less than five sentences. I am not accustomed to visitors in this _particular_ venue."

"Right," Blaise agreed, glancing around at the elegant furnishings. "Nice sheets. Anyway, the wedding reception was being held last night, and Professor Cass up and gate-crashed it to beat all hell."

"And she was arrested for gate-crashing?"

"No, I think it was aggravated assault and public libel, actually." Blaise sighed appreciatively. "Though the libel's a crock, everyone knows he's honestly lost his-"

"Do you _mind?"_ Severus was really starting to get testy. After all, how long did females usually _take_ in the shower, anyway? "Get to the point with it!"

"Right. She gave Maria a Guardian of Branwen locket and told the whole slew of family and relatives where to get off. I think she intended Hell."

"And then?"

"She pretty much broadcast the reason why Milton was walking funny and why they made poor Maria marry him. Then the fights started."

"Was anybody killed?"

"No, regrettably. The Ministry pigs finally up and closed things down, but it took Alastor Moody and the really tall and dishy black Auror about ten minutes to get Cass out. What's-his-name finally wound up carrying her over his shoulder like a sack, still shouting the most poetic and clever profanities my ears have ever been graced to hear, waving her fists and threatening damnation and syphilis on the entire company."

There was a long and really quite awkward pause as Severus considered this.

"Was she sober?"

"Gods, I _hope_ not," Blaise replied. "If she was, she must be a bloody hell-banshee drunk."

"She is," John pointed out calmly, appearing for all purposes to have greatly enjoyed the tale, smiling absently. "Especially when she's a bit on the randy side. I still have a couple marks-"

_"Sweet Satan!"_ Snape cried, interrupting him. "The borders of acceptable conversation have been positively buggered with a stick to now; must you kill them off entirely with that image?" Blaise released a long-pent-up giggle, only to be glared at unmercifully. "The events of last night are completely unacceptable-"

"Morning, love," Hermione greeted, appearing from the bathroom door.

In her 2051 memoirs, Blaise Zabini was to describe that moment as 'easily the most positive, if not plainly the _best_ shock of my life.' In 1996, however, she was simply a gobsmacked kid whose pal had appeared, still fairly wet, in one of their teacher's robes. As a startled squeak escaped Hermione, John smiled and waved a pawlike hand.

"'Allo, 'Mione."

Blaise made a little 'eeeak' sound as well, then looked rapidly from the werewolf, to Snape, to Hermione and back, looking in severe danger of whiplash. Since John Tyler seemed as unsurprised as Dumbledore, things were feeling a little strange.

"You…but…them…what…?"

The poor Slytherin was reduced to gesturing confusedly. John sighed and smiled affably.

"You know, if Cassie were here, she'd Obliviate you so fast her wand would smoke." He took a small tin from his pocket, opened it, and offered the contents to Blaise. "Have an Altoid. They're cinnamon."

There was no option but for the supremely off-balance girl to accept one of the red things and pop it into her mouth, where she chewed at it meditatively. The searing hot taste a split-second later seemed to shake her out of the shock stasis. Seeing that it had worked, John continued, still smiling and calm.

"I know it's very startling, a scene like this."

Blaise and Hermione both nodded. Severus was growing red and tense. 

"But really, isn't the best thing when one discovers that two friends –or acquaintances, whatever, are together, simply to congratulate them? I mean, judging from the way she came in, Hermione wasn't coerced into anything, and judging by the way Severus has lent her a robe and all, he's clearly head over tail for her. Really, if we didn't have to go spring my wife from the pokey in a little bit, I'd suggest champagne."

A short moment passed following this extraordinary pronouncement, then Blaise seemed to grasp the logic of the werewolf's argument. She smiled.

"It is _awfully_ cute, the two of them, idn't it?" She tilted her head at the pair admiringly. 

"I thought so," John agreed.

"And it really makes sense as well. I mean, you're both smart, you both read more than you sleep, eat or play Quidditch, and you sort of balance each other out. Apart from the whole student-teacher thing, I can't say that I'm really that surprised, come to think of it." A thought crossed her mind and she smirked a little bit. "Actually, I sort of find the teacher-student thing sexy."

"So we'll just leave them to get dressed, eh?"

"Right. See you lot in a bit downstairs."

Blaise quite chipperly left Severus' bedroom, but John remained. Hermione, still a little the worse for the shock, looked quizzically at him.

"How did you manage that?" The werewolf shrugged.

"Logic, plus not jumping when you came out. Good thing I smelled you here and was ready, eh?" There was suddenly a muffled thump from the hallway outside and John looked a bit sheepish. "That, and those weren't really Altoids. She won't recall a thing."

*********************************************************** 

It didn't take too much to get Cass out of jail in the end. Severus made an impassioned argument to Cornelius Fudge, pointing out that a witch of her youth, slightness, physical diminuitivity, etc., could not possibly have posed a threat to several very large and burly Blodgetts, especially when she had clearly over-imbibed and was in the grips of alcoholic incapacity. Moreover, she was American, and with some lack of subtlety he reminded the Minister of the prevailing belief that American magical education was wildly inferior. He also pointed out his colleague's pallor and persistent cough as an example of her poor health, which, he said, even hindered her flying, as only yesterday she had snapped her leg falling off a broom.

Then he appealed to the Minister's sense of family by explaining (and rather exaggerating,) the relationship of Cass and Maria until it appeared that a sick, maleducated, small, hapless, overly emotional and American female had been acting in defense of her heart's sister. Several pre-menopausal witches in observance of the scene actually wept at points. Cass and Hermione tried their damnedest not to snort.

It was a piece of forensics worthy of Clarence Darrow or Thurgood Marshall, but Professor McGonagall outdid him. She walked calmly up to the Minister, waited for Severus to be completely out of breath, then smiled calmly and spoke:

"Two words, Cornelius. Diplomatic immunity."

And that pretty much did it.

******************************************************** 

The next day, Cass found Hermione absently playing solitaire on one of the multitude computers. She cracked a soda and went to perch by her chair.

"So I hear you shocked Blaise into next week, eh?" The girl froze and went rather scarlet about the ears. "Calm down, it was John told me. Blaise thinks she saw Sevvy in bunny pajamas. I think that's worse."

Hermione, it should be mentioned, was absolutely red.

"You're blushing. What?" Cass glanced at her soda can and then back at her friend in astonishment. "Is that…good _lord!" _

The werewolf smiled as Hermione went ashen. 

"What?"

"That little smile."

"What smile?" Hermione asked, trying to look neutral.

"The little secret 'hopelessly sick in love' sort of one, lurking a little below your cheek! I know that look!" The mischief drained out of Cass' grin, leaving only a knowledgeably affable half-smile. "I've had it myself for awhile now."

Hermione watched as her friend and teacher pulled up a chair. "So you love Sevvy." She nodded.

"I do believe I do."

"I've been thinking the same thing since I met the pair of you. Aw, you both didn't quite notice it at first, but it's there. The way he glances at you in class, the way you watch his hands, I've seen those looks before. And believe me, I know what a pair of people in love look like." 

"Do you remember your parents together?" Hermione asked, immediately regretting it. Cass shook her head, though, not sadly at all.

"Nope. But there's one thing I'll say for Muggles. They photograph everything." She took a long slug of the soda and then sighed. "Arthur and Molly Weasley, the way _they_ look at each other, that's how you and Sevvy look. It's not quite as obvious, because you two are having to hide it, and they've forgotten how to look at each other any other way."

"John looks at you like that," Hermione pointed out. "Sometimes he'll just sort of stand there while you're doing something, watching you like the only thing in his life worth seeing. And I've seen the way your whole face changes when he walks into a room. You can be frustrated or angry or ready to throw a chair at Goyle, but when he shows up, you just look so much in love. You both do."

"Wish you didn't have to hide yours, pal," Cass sighed. "Because not everybody in the world is going to grasp the idea of you two together."

"No."

"Did I tell you about the other Aurors in my deputy class?" Cass asked. Hermione shook her head. "Well, John used to teach tracking and Animagic sometimes. Those are his areas. And a lot of the witches and wizards there were specist gits. Some weren't, like my friend Katie Scarlett, but a good many were.

"They used to call him Wolfy and Dog-breath and a hundred other mindless things. They also used to play tricks, like leaving a dog bone on his desk or putting dog …droppings in the classroom somewhere. And you know John, he just stayed as calm as ever. There were times when I wanted to ram that stuff down some people's throats, and sometimes Katie Scarlett did ream those people out. But John didn't do anything. He knew they were less than him. 

"Eventually, it came out that we were seeing each other out of class. I won't even dignify some of the things said by repeating them. Some people asked what I saw in him, some people asked whether I was into bestiality…they didn't grasp werewolves as human. A few people were really concerned that I was interested in someone 'below myself,' and tried to stage kind of interventions for me. When I had the wolf mark done, some people wrote me off as well. I found notes with 'doggy-style' and 'wolf-lover' in my stuff. There were hideous caricatures. It was all really cruel. I almost dropped a session of Transfiguration training because of the assholes in that class."

"What happened, though?" Hermione asked. Cass swallowed hard and tried to restrain her smirk.

"Katie Scarlett got sick of it and had her husband drop by."

"He was a werewolf?"

"Worse." Cass grinned. "A Malfoy. This was the American Aurory, and some of us were looking at maybe being shipped out to fight Voldemort. We knew who Lucius Malfoy was, hated his guts, used his picture as a dartboard, the whole nine yards. Katie Scarlett was and still is married to his brother. She basically said 'Look, if I can love Sal, Cassie can love John.' And you did _not_ want to mess with her."

"I didn't even know Lucius Malfoy had a brother."

"Salazar was disowned. He's sort of an Arthur Weasley type…married Katie without knowing she was a witch. She's Muggle-born, too, and Southern to the point of being frightening, but she's bright enough to know what tripe-sluppers specists are." Cass set the soda can down and smiled. "She's the sort of person who won't even blink at you and Severus. Even if she had doubts, politeness would keep her from voicing them, and with the two of you, there's not really any doubt."

"Ron and Harry won't like it."

"Then they can kiss your ass and go to hell. Friends are only friends if they put your heart in mind." Cass shrugged. "Sure, they'll likely need some nitroglycerin on the tongue at first, but if they don't see what I do, they're blind as bats. And I think they'll see."

"Is that optimism or trying to cheer me up?"

"Hermione, I call it like I see it. I don't do optimist." Cass smirked wryly. "The only thing more overrated than optimism is drunken sex."

Hermione went absolutely crimson and had to restrain a guilty look. "I mean _honestly_, you can't remember half of it, plus alcohol slows guys down, not to _mention_ what you smell like the next morning…" Cass caught a look at Hermione's expression and froze mid-gesture. "Oh, holy fuck. You _didn't."_

"I –erm, well, I…"

"You _did!"_

"It wasn't like we were drunk!"

"And a good thing, too! I tell you, it's _lousy_ drunk." Cass opened another soda and began quite calmly drinking it. Hermione, who had expected the Spanish Inquisition to begin at that moment, looked confused. 

"Aren't you going to ask…?"

"Not unless you want to tell me, why?"

There was a very long, very frustrated pause. "Wait a second. If I were Ginny or Blaise, I'd be begging for every little detail, right?"

"Well, _yeah."_

"Hermione, pal, it's none of my business, or of theirs either. I'm not barking with curiosity because I've pretty much sampled the available feast, you know." The meaning of her metaphor struck Cass a bit funny. "Well, not _feast,_ but …you know what I mean."

"That's likely why Maria never asked at all."

"I s'pose."

"But Blaise's tried it, with a _couple_ of guys. Why does she ask, then?"

Cass thought for a moment.

"Maybe because she's never done it with anyone she really gave a damn about."

"Oh." Hermione considered this. "Wait. Maria's certainly never…" Cass looked evasively at her shoes. "She _has?_ Cass, you know something I don't about Maria, don't you?"

"Yep."

"And that's why you crashed the reception, right?"

"Partly why."

There was another uncomfortable pause.

"You can't tell me."

"No." Cass frowned, looking frustrated, if not plain angry with Maria's family. "I'm sorry." Hermione sighed.

"I sort of wish she'd come to Severus, or Madam Pomfrey or somebody. She shouldn't have to have that bastard's kid." Cass patted Hermione's shoulder.

"That's part of the problem, pal. But at least none of their lot can hurt her now."

"How is that?"

"The locket I gave her last night."

"Guardian of Branwen…what's that mean?"

"Well, you know who Branwen of Britain was?"

Hermione was indeed familiar with the story. Branwen, a Welsh princess, had been married to a brutal Irish king, who after a short honeymoon had become abusive to her. Her twin brother, Brandon, had heard from the birds of what was going on and invaded Ireland to depose the king and rescue his sister. She nodded and Cass gave her a little smirk. "Well, it's basically a really strong Portkey. If anyone hits her or yells at her, or so much as ticks her off, really, the next thing you know Maria'll be somewhere else."

"Where?" Hermione was impressed.

"Well, you can cast the end on a person, but there didn't seem to be anyone safe enough, so I put it on both a person _and_ a place." Cass looked really smirky and pleased with herself by now. 

"Madam Pomfrey's?"

"Even more unexpected."

"America?"

"Closer."

"The Shrieking Shack?"

"Less dangerous. Who can you think of who would take care of anyone or anything? The most big-hearted person on the earth?"

Hermione was thunderstruck.

"You'll send her to _Hagrid?"_

"Well, why not? Seemed like a damn good idea to me." Cass grinned cheekily. Hermione seemed confused.

"But what if she's in labor or something?"

"Well, if Hagrid can deliver baby hippogriffs, I doubt baby humans are much harder."

"Why not Molly Weasley or somebody?"

"I considered her. But you never know…" Cass looked at her sneakers again. "I felt Hagrid would be best."

"Sometimes I wonder what goes _through_ your mind, Yankee professor," Hermione observed.

"Air and lectures, from coming in my ears."

"In one, out the other?"

"Yep." Cass suddenly had an idea. "You have had the bitchy contraception slash avoid STDs one already, right?"

"The Muggle version."

"The wizarding one's not much different. You took a potion last night, right?"

"Severus cast a spell."

"Good, because the potion always gives me a rash. And at Hogwarts you don't have to bother." Cass went smirky again.

"Why?"

"They told us professors that there's an anti-ception ward on the whole grounds, sparing my place, of course. Noone can get pregnant unless…I think it's if both parties either _want_ a kid or if they love each other enough to look after one. Not sure." The werewolf shrugged.

"But Maria-?"

"In Hogsmeade. Didn't apply," Cass spoke abruptly, then relaxed. "And if worse comes to worse, there's several places where you can get potions or condoms our gods-know-what."

"Wizards have that kind of stuff?"

"Pal, they've thought of things Masters and Johnson never _dreamed_ about. Why, the toy stores _alone_ are worth a good visit…" Cass brightened considerably. "I tell you what, let's go look at some. I have back Auror pay for almost ten months now that's burning a hole in my pockets like crazy."

"In Diagon Alley?"

"No."

"Knockturn?"

"Where?"

"There's a whole bloody wizards' red-light district. Sensu Alley, I think it's called."

"But…I'm underage. Do they let teenagers in?"

"They'd let first-years in with a responsible adult."

"_You_ look responsible?"

"Maybe you'd better take me, then?" Cass joked. "Naw, they already know me too well from my book signings. Did you hear John and I've just outsold Lockhart?"

"_He_ only wrote about garden gnomes."

********************************************************* 

A/N: Sorry about the delayed chapter, but I have rehearsals to attend, lines to learn, litter boxes to clean, and other nasty tasks. With regard to the recent reviews, I am sorry it's taking so long to get to the plot 'meat,' but it has to happen chronologically. I _am_ following orders here, both from a beta who can catch dangling participles and mixed metaphors, and from an outline, done on wrinkly notebook paper with a blurry Bic quite awhile ago. It's going to be a few more chapters before the really dramatic stuff starts happening, and until I find some means of doing Research (I am now _sans_ boyfriend,) the smut will be humorously implied or described sketchily. Never was that good at writing it, anyway. Either sounds too sentimental or like an anatomy text. That stuff's _hard_ –no pun intended. Really. Good lord, I need some sleep. More later.


	35. Things Get Drank

Chapter Thirty-Five: Things Get Drank

The second month of summer had started with its' usual flurry. Only a few things were really different. Hermione had gotten a letter informing her that she was, naturally, Head Girl, and Draco Malfoy had managed to become Head Boy, much to some Gryffindors' mock displeasure. Ginny Weasley had broken up with Harry for the third time, this time only requiring three hours and an apology on bended knee to take him back. "After all," she was heard to remark coolly to Blaise, "it would hardly be a serious relationship if I didn't break it off at least _once_." 

Classes were now to be held with some regularity in the Shrieking Shack, whenever Cass had some Muggle media to show her students and whenever the Whomping Willow could be placated with a spray form of asphodel and wormwood Snape had prepared. On one miserable occasion, Cass had accidentally sprayed herself in the foot with it, causing a hilarious limp and more 'foot's asleep' jokes than it was really fair to hear. 

John and Cass, with Draco and Hermione's help, had finally perfected the computer-wand machine. Since Voldemort's 'secret weapon' was merely an amplified wand, their invention seemed sure to prove far superior, since, as John haltingly explained, Moldy-Voldy's was drawing its' power from him and theirs was converting electrical current into magical energy. 

"So we might put the lights out in London," Cass explained, "but it won't draw anything from us." 

"We simply point and shoot?" Professor McGonagall asked. She was, like most, awed and more than a little frightened of what the machine might do. 

"A little more tricky, but basically," John smiled.

There was a long pause before the Head of Gryffindor spoke again:

"The Ministry's going to have kittens over this."

"Speaking of!" Draco cried, looking at the closed-circuit camera monitor. "Toadwoman approaching at twelve o'clock!"

"Sweet satan!" Cass quickly shut down the wand-machine's interface and put up an innocent game of solitaire. "I forgot she was coming by! Draco, get the door!"

"Can't Hermione? I don't want her to simper at me again!"

"She hates my guts, and she'd wet herself if Professor McGonagall went –no offense, Professor."

"None taken. I think it's quite a nice compliment."

"_Somebody's_ got to let her in!" Cass cried, just as the doorbell rang. "I've got to change my shirt!"

"Hello, Ms. Umbridge," John greeted, having gotten the door himself. "We've been expecting you."

_"Help!"_ Cass whispered to Hermione, trying desperately to pull her t-shirt off. Since it read 'Bugger Bureaucracy' in large Gothic capitals, Umbridge would likely take the garment too personally. "Something sober!" Hermione grabbed a plain black t-shirt from one of the abundant indoor clotheslines and tossed it to her friend, just as Draco flinched at the sudden sight of a leopard-print bra. A split second after the hem reached the waistband of Cass's jeans, John led the opprobrious lady in. "Ms. Umbridge! So nice to meet you at last!"

Dolores Umbridge's traumatic expulsion from Hogwarts two years ago had not improved her much. She now had a nervous tic in her right eyebrow, a profound fear of anything and everything with hooves, and a rumored addiction to Calming Potions. She also feared what the Ministry feared more than ever before. A simpering smile on her toadly face, she offered a hand to Cass.

"Professor Tyler," she greeted. 

"Come, sit down," Cass offered, indicating the mad assortment of armchairs, couches, and other odd furniture. "How was the journey here?"

"Pleasant, for the most part. I was deeply distressed by that tree outside."

"Whacky? Oh, the Whomping Willow really means no harm, and the students love it. Whacky's sort of a class mascot." The fact that Cass had just made this up out of whole cloth was not lost on the Head students. "Besides, it's really quite the school talking point, apart from Inky."

"Inky?" Umbridge asked tensely.

"Inky's our giant squid," Cass explained with a chipper smile. 

"How…charming." The pedantic bureaucrat opened her purse and drew out a small clipboard. "Would you mind if I took down a few notes during the interview?"

"'Course not. I'm doing the same myself." Cass smiled and made a limp gesture toward the Slytherin boy. "Draco, m'duck, would you fetch the Dictoquill?"

Umbridge, it should be remarked, flinched slightly at the realization that there were two students present.

"I'm afraid it's still transcribing your Rolling Stones lyrics upstairs," Draco replied apologetically. "Would the tape-deck do?"

"Perfectly, thank you." As Draco went to get it, Cass gave Umbridge a merry, if slightly over-patrician smile. "That Draco makes such a good assistant."

"You –er, employ students?"

"In a manner of speaking," Cass beckoned Hermione over as Draco started the tape-deck recording. "Would you be so kind as to bring the refreshments in? Thank you so much." Hermione relievedly headed for the kitchen to let out the giggles Cass had sensed. "I find that a detention of helping me is far better discipline than, say, cleaning things or writing lines. The student learns with a professional and I get a little help." Umbridge's lips tightened slightly at this.

"What, exactly, did these students do to get detention?"

"Oh, these two aren't being punished, actually. If I find I need a bit of help, I hire students for twenty housepoints an hour. Quite economical. The little Hufflepuff de-gnoming the garden was late for class three times." Cass smiled, having reduced the late classes by four and neglected to mention the boy's utter fondness for throwing gnomes. Umbridge began to look faintly ill as Hermione set down a tray of nearly all Muggle snacks.

"Tell me, Professor, what is your opinion on corporal punishment?"

"I think it's ridiculously ineffective and anyone who says otherwise was never a teenager."

"Oh, really?" Umbridge replied lamely. "How about the banning of clandestine books?"

Cass let out her best airy Trelawney-laugh.

"There's nothing so tempting as a banned book, now, is there? Rather than banning something, why not try _recommending_ it day in and day out until no student _wants_ to read the thing?" 

"But if the book is wildly inappropriate, will that not lure some students?" Umbridge challenged.

"How d'you mean, inappropriate?" Cass asked. "Give me some examples."

"Well… the Alleghenys' bestseller, for instance."

"If a student is old enough to be curious, aren't they old enough to get unbiased facts?"

"Professor, that book contains…_sexual_ material."

"So it does. But it also contains contraceptive methods, facts about the prevention of venereal disease, and strong, logical counseling against promiscuity. They're going to try it anyway, why not help them do so safely?"

"Alright… 'The Outsiders' by S.E Hinton."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Character death, flouting of authority, violence…not to mention it's Muggle-written."

"Precisely why I include it my curriculum. There are few books that better explain the American Muggle at that level, and the thematic elements make it interesting enough for the students to enjoy."

"'To Kill a Mockingbird' by Harper Lee. That novel mentions rape and discusses racism!" Umbridge stated this rather triumphantly. Cass looked at her with the same merry smile.

"So you've actually read that one?" Umbridge blushed.

"I most certainly have not."

"Do, Ms. Umbridge," Cass said calmly. "Do."

There was a long silence.

"So, Professor…where were you born?"

"Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania."

"Where?"

"It's a city in America."

"Ah. How old are you?"

"Twenty-three next month."

"Isn't that rather _young?"_

"Isn't fifty-two rather _old?"_

Umbridge, while going a little pale, let that slide.

"What…is your favorite subject, apart from your own?"

"Transfiguration."

"Your favorite class?"

"Right now, I think the third year Slytherins and Gryffindors. They're studying the life and works of Jim Morrison when term starts."

"Your …favorite food?" Umbridge gasped. She was trying to ask neutral questions while remaining calm and struggling miserably.

"Fruitcake or fried chicken, either one."

"Date of birth?"

"October twenty-second."

"Are you married or single?"

"Married, almost three years."

"Your husband's name?"

"John Riordan Tyler."

"Your full name?"

"Cassandra Antigone Alcott Tyler."

"Your parents' names?"

"Drs. James and Antigone Alcott."

"Doctors?"

"Muggle title indicating term of study. My father had his Ph.D in history and my mother's was in foreign languages."

"Ah. Then you are of Muggle parentage?"

"Yes," Cass answered confidently. 

"Ah," Umbridge stalled, trying to think of something neutral. "What is your favorite book?"

"I have two. 'Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood' by Rebecca Wells and 'To Kill a Mockingbird' by Harper Lee."

In the next room, Professor McGonagall and Hermione both stifled snorts. Umbridge finally snapped.

"Professor Tyler, isn't it true that you're an American Auror, here to bring down the Ministry?"

"What utter rot," Cass replied calmly. "Care for a martini?" Umbridge gaped, which the werewolf took to be a 'yes.' "Draco, would you do up two martinis?"

Obediently, Draco emerged from the kitchen pushing a teacart, on which stood a pitcher, glasses, and many bottles. With great dexterity and show, he poured gin into the pitcher of cracked ice and stirred it.

"Stir, never shake," he quoted. Next, he splashed vermouth into two martini glasses and spun them, so that only the thinnest coating remained. Finally, he poured the chilled gin into the glasses and carried them to the adults. "Care for an olive?" he asked Umbridge. "I was taught that it takes up too much room in such a little glass."

"And who taught this young man to make a-"

"Ms. Umbridge, knowledge is power," Cass said neatly. "Thank you, Draco."

As Draco ducked back into the kitchen, Professor McGonagall smiled at him.

"Exactly who _did_ teach you to make a martini?"

"My mother, naturally. I kept bar before I could read."

In the meantime, the interview was steadily declining. When Umbridge asked to see her curriculum, Cass stood up and went to fetch a copy of 'American History' from her shelf, at which point Umbridge let out a gasp. "What is it?" Cass inquired innocently.

"Professor Tyler, I find that you are a hopelessly reckless and wild …libertine!" Umbridge cried.

"And damn proud of it," Cass replied coolly.

"You're no more fit to teach a child than a mad hippogriff!"

"Perhaps not, madam," Cass said in a maddeningly calm voice. "But the students of Hogwarts are not children. They are _young adults,_ and they no more deserve to be talked down to, simpered at and restricted than _you_ deserve power in the Ministry."

Umbridge gaped at the American, looking rather purple and giving the impression that she might at any moment catch a fly.

"Who _gave_ you the right to speak to me this way?"

"A great lot of men in breeches and white wigs, madam. You forget that I am an American, and thus granted complete and _total_ freedom of speech." Cass held up the heavy book. "Never read this either, eh?"

"You insubordinate little-"

"Madam, I am at the present moment neither insubordinate nor, considering the fact that I am two feet your better in height, little. As a full officer of the American Aurory and an international ambassador, I outrank you."

"Then you _are_ an Auror here to bring down the Ministry!"

"I am an Auror," Cass said slowly and deliberately, "here to _protect_ the children you find me so unfit to teach. There you are. My only qualification to teach American Muggle Studies is the fact that I once _was_ one. You can tell Cornelius Fudge that the crazy Yank's simply an armed guard at Hogwarts –basically _your_ old job without the bull."

"And that scruffy _cap_ said she was a Slytherin," Professor McGonagall marveled in the other room.

"Professor Tyler, I am leaving," Umbridge announced.

"A prospect to which I have no objections," Cass replied coldly.

There were a few moments of silence during which the unseen audience listened. Finally they heard the front door slam, and a few seconds later a can cracked open. Professor McGonagall led the students back into the armchair-filled room. Cass had quite rapidly finished the martinis and started on a soda.

"Well…how'd it go?" Draco asked.

"Gods, I hate that woman," Cass observed. "Tell me Rita Skeeter's an improvement."

************************************************************* 

For his seventeenth birthday, Harry had his first party. He had been sent back temporarily to the Dursleys after his month between Ron's and Snape's, only to be rescued in a somewhat spectacular manner one morning.

It had seemed rather like an ordinary day for Dudley. He had breakfast, a snack, another snack, played a game of Mega-Mutilation 3-D, and gone out to meet some friends.

Right as he reached the driveway, a limousine pulled up in front of his house.

_"Dad!" _

Vernon Dursley dropped what he was doing and headed for the door, as did Petunia. They were awed and astonished by the sight, more so as several people in black suits and sunglasses emerged from the front of the spectacular car. They had earphones and one seemed to be carrying a gun in a shoulder harness, just like bodyguards did in films. The neighbors were starting to emerge from their houses to watch, and Vernon tapped Dudley on the back.

"Stand up straight, son. Our moment's come at last."

Two other, less remarkable cars appeared and a veritable slew of reporters, dressed in trenchcoats despite the heat, came swarming out and started to photograph. A van followed, and a cameraman started to film a strikingly pretty blonde as she commented on a mike:

"We are here live, at Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey…"

Vernon seemed quite about to burst with pride. At length, the bodyguards made a formation and one opened up the back door of the limousine. Dudley's jaw dropped as an exceedingly beautiful redhead and brunette emerged. They were dressed in what looked like Victoria Martin Beckham's leftovers, and glamour fairly dripped off in the camera flashes. Two of the bodyguards unfurled a red carpet, which neatly covered the cement walkway, and, flanked by drooling, camera-flashing reporters, the two temptresses approached the Dursleys' door.

"Well?" the redhead asked expectantly, looking at Dudley over her sunglasses.

"Erm…good morning."

"No, where is he?" the brunette inquired.

"Where is…whom?" Vernon asked haltingly. "I'm Vernon Dursley, this is my wife, and my son-"

"Oh, not _you,"_ the redhead waved them off. "Where is Harry?"

Vernon went visibly pale.

"H-h-harry?"

"Harry _Potter_, you great twit," one of the bodyguards observed. "We _do_ have the right address?" It wasn't a question.

"Your nephew," another added.

"Ah, yes. Right." Vernon looked quite frightened. "You aren't by any chance…_magic?"_

_"Magic?"_ The brunette looked at the man as if he were quite mad. "Have you gone batty? Harry Potter's one of the best-known rock and roll stars in America."

"Er…are you sure you have the right Harry?" Petunia stammered. "Our nephew doesn't even…he isn't…"

"Aunt Petunia, what's-?" Harry had just appeared. "Ginny, love!" He reached over and hugged his girlfriend, giving her a faintly scandalous kiss. The reporters went wild.

"Mr. Potter, is it true that you plan to tour?"

"How long have you been together with Miss Weasley?"

"Is it true that your bass player's marrying Carmen Electra in a month?"

Harry, looking a bit gobsmacked, put up a hand for silence. The brunette spoke up:

"Harry's going with us to finish our new album, due out in three weeks!"

Applause was heard, and a little slew of screaming thirteen-year-olds had appeared. Dudley gaped in horror as his cousin signed pictures and CDs and even the arm of one enthusiastic little teenybopper. The flashbulbs were starting to make him sick, on top of the irony that this whole situation caused. Quickly, Vernon stepped forward.

"Er- Harry?" he smiled, trying his best to seem like a loving uncle and not a depraved walrus. "When can we expect you home?"

"Never!" the redhead cried. "His new mansion's in Beverly Hills!"

"Feel free to visit, Uncle," Harry invited wryly, having realized what was going on. "I'm off!"

As the limousine and reporters and teenyboppers began to filter away, Dudley and Vernon vainly tried to catch a bit of publicity for themselves. 

"Would you like to see his bedroom?"

"We have the inside story-"

"I think he left a few of his socks down the laundry…"

"Wait a tick!"

It was really kind of pathetic, Petunia thought. She, being just a bit brighter, had caught on to the fact that nearly all of the 'bodyguards' had vibrant red hair.

*********************************************************** 

"How on earth did you manage it?" Harry gasped.

"Back Auror pay and a good idea," Cass explained from behind the wheel. Turning Dingo into a limo hadn't been very hard. Hermione smiled despite her scandalous Spice Girl dress.

"Do you think they bought it?" she asked.

"They were gobsmacked! It was brilliant!" Harry had a sudden thought. "But the reporters, the bodyguards…who were those little girls?"

"The reporters, for the most part, come from the ancient and unroyal house of Creevey. Dennis and Colin have quite a few Muggle cousins with cameras," Hermione explained.

"The bodyguards were my brothers, Draco, and Blaise in drag," Ginny added.

"And the teenyboppers come courtesy of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff, last term's first and second-years." Cass grinned under her rented chauffeur's hat. "As for the newscaster, you remember Fleur Delacour?" 

"Who was the cameraman?"

"Me," a voice from the back replied. Harry looked at the stubble-whiskered, pot-bellied man in shock, until quite suddenly 'he' turned back into Tonks. "That was really fun, wasn't it?"

"And we have another surprise," Draco announced, slipping a tape into the car's stereo. After a short silence, Cass' interview with Umbridge began to play. By the time the crack about the Alleghenys' book was heard, Harry was laughing harder than he had in quite awhile.

"Happy birthday, pal," Cass said, shaking her student's hand.

************************************************************ 

Hermione found herself using the bottle-top Portkey quite often now. John was nearly always out on some spy's errand, and if Cass wasn't with him, she was either working on the computers or getting impossibly drunk, sometimes simultaneously. Privately, Hermione suspected that her professor was taking Maria's situation a little too hard, since that was usually why she picked up the bourbon –or vodka, or gin, or Firewhiskey… She had lost more than a little weight lately, adding to the haggardness of her appearance, and her friend's condition in the mornings had actually made Hermione vomit twice. Cass still got enough work done to keep anyone from commenting on the fact that she went through almost as much booze as the Three Broomsticks, but John and Severus were getting worried. 

Before she left for Severus' estate one night in late August, Hermione noticed that Cass was already passed out. Quickly, she drew some of the blood needed for the Veritas Sanguinus before touching the bottletop. Cass was too far-gone to even flinch.

"What's wrong?" Severus inquired the moment his love appeared. She was clearly struggling to fight back tears.

"Cass!"

"Drunk again?"

"As _always!_ I don't see what the hell her problem is! She's quit soda in favor of Scotch and tea in favor of straight vodka! She's a drunk!"

"Dear, she's deeply depressed."

"So she's soaking herself in depressants? _Brilliant_ move!"

"I didn't say I agreed with her. How have _you_ been?" Hermione sighed and tried to catch her breath, but only succeeded in bursting into tears. "Alright, bad question."

"No, dear, I'm fine, it's just…everything's going so _terribly_…"

"No, it isn't," Severus consoled. "John arrested four Death Eaters last night, and Voldemort doesn't make a _move_ we don't know about."

"But Cass is a wreck and I'm…" Hermione sighed again. "I just keep crying at everything, or blowing up at my friends."

"Not to seem like the stupid male, but…is it possibly PMS?" Hermione laughed.

"Quite probably. I don't really keep track."

"You've been using that potion to stop…"

"Doesn't everyone?" She considered this a second. "Well, all the females? It certainly saves a lot of bother and inconvenience."

"True," Severus agreed. "Though it does remove one important indicator of health or…erm, condition."

"Dear, we've used a spell every time, except for that night in the dungeons. And that kind of thing can't happen at Hogwarts."

"Exactly," Severus began to think. "What have you been eating lately?"

"Mostly fast-food, why?"

"Why would you _eat_ that?"

"Given the choice between my cooking, Cass's or cat droppings, I'd happily chow down on something from Crookshanks' box."

"How revolting. It's likely that, then, what with all the preservatives and hormones and gods-know-what Muggles put into food."

"That, or I've got the flu."

"Very possible." Severus put his arms around her. "Or you might just need to be cuddled for a bit."

"I have a blood sample from Cass, though. We could do the potion-"

_"What the fuck?"_

A very drunk, very angry Cass Tyler had just been thrown unceremoniously onto the floor, a water bottle in her hand.

**************************************************************** 


	36. Sobering Facts

Chapter Thirty-Six: Sobering Facts

"I'll handle this," Severus announced calmly. Hermione was still reeling in shock from her friend's sudden appearance, so she didn't move to stop him. Quite abruptly, the drunken werewolf found herself lifted up into the air by the scruff of her neck.

_"Wha-fuck?"_

"_Listen_ to me, you sodden little puppy! _I have_ …_had …enough …of …your …drinking!"_ With every pause, Severus gave Cass a shake. The loose skin at her nape kept the treatment from hurting, but the sensation of being treated like human maracas got her attention somewhat spectacularly. Hermione couldn't even protest, so sudden was her lover's movement and so humorous the dumbstruck look on Cass's face. 

Quite blandly ignoring the howls of protest, flailing limbs and barking coughs of his colleague, Severus bodily carried the werewolf into his bathroom. There was a tub roughly the size of that in the Prefects' bathroom, already filled and ready for a decidedly more pleasant purpose than the one at hand. Cass found herself up to the ears in it with a splash. A quick charm from Severus turned the warm, faintly vanilla-scented waters into a frigid miniature of the North Atlantic. 

The sound Cass made at that moment was really astonishing. Hermione hadn't even known that her friend's voice _went_ that high.

"S'fuckin' _cold!"_ Cass cried slurredly. "Le'me out o'this!"

"Not until you sober up!" Severus yelled.

Cold water was one thing. Snape shouting –_really_ shouting, was another. Cass began to calm down and look lucid, chattering teeth and all. Once a full minute had passed, Severus pulled her out and tossed a towel in her direction. "Get dry and come back downstairs." He stalked off toward the potions lab in the basement.

Cass immediately began the task of getting the cold water out of her clothes and hair. For a moment, Hermione was torn between following Severus and helping the half-drowned professor with the towel. She struck a compromise by doing neither;

"Here, I'll get some of my clothes for you to change."

Hermione brought back a sweatshirt of hers and some old black jeans with potion-stains. Considering the temperature of the water from which she had just been pulled, a skirt did not sound like a good idea for Cass. As Hermione handed over the clothes, however, the werewolf frowned.

"What are _your_ clothes doing here?"

"When you're drunk I stay here," Hermione explained tersely. 

"Oh." Cass frowned apologetically. "I _have_ been overdoing it."

"_Overdoing_ it? I'm surprised your blood's not turned to vinegar! You've gone through more booze than some Muggle bars do in a month in the past three weeks!" Finally Hermione was able to voice her fury and disgust. "Some Auror you are, too pissed to see straight. No wonder the Death Eaters are still about!"

"I'm sorry," Cass said coldly.

"_Sorry?_ Oh, you're sorry now that you've gotten caught and yelled at! You have no idea what we're fighting here, do you, Yank? You're not involved in this!"

_"I'm_ not involved?"

"Hell, no! You haven't watched your best friends almost killed, your parents' house was never destroyed in this! None of _your_ classmates died!"

"I'm not involved?" Cass repeated, genuinely furious. "I didn't fly two thousand miles to help out some family, I came 'cause _you_ needed me!"

"Oh, _sure_. We need a drunk werewolf!"

"As much as you need a showoffy, bucktoothed little bint who's too busy _studying_ to keep her classmates from trying to kill themselves?" Cass was really roaring now. "Too blind to see the obvious solution in her own native culture? Too House-conscious to watch out for a Slytherin?"

"And _you're_ so nice to the Slytherins! You only care because you _are_ one!"

"Damn right I am! I'm bright enough to see that your Gryffindor piety's as much a charade as Trelawney's curriculum! Who's got clothes at her professor's house?"

"Who's willing to kill a student?"

"Who's ready to brew poisons?"

_"Whose father's a Death Eater?"_

The words hit Cass like a slap. For a long moment, the two females regarded each other. Hermione realized how much she had hurt her friend and was opening her mouth to apologize when Cass inquired:

"How long have you known?"

Hermione was dumbfounded.

"Known?"

"That I'm Malfoy's…" Cass trailed off. "How'd you find out?"

"I don't know, we just supposed…"

"Supposed?" Cass let out a bitter laugh. "I've _known_. Ever since the night Draco hauled my drunk ass back to Hogwarts."

"But how did you…?" Cass drew her wand and pointed it at herself.

"_Finite Incantatem_."

The color charms were dispelled instantly, leaving only the Muggle-dyed ends of Cass's hair dark. Underneath the Follicus Rechromus charm, Cass had white-blond hair every inch as pale and sephulchral as Lucius or Draco's. Hermione had never quite realized how exactly their eyes matched, or how the cruel twist of the lip was the same on both when they were being sarcastic, as Cass was now. "Great resemblance to the family, isn't there?"

"Almost," Severus's voice sounded. "I see you've discovered this for yourself." Cass's cold charade fell from her like a cloak.

"This is one truth I'd rather not have found."

"Then listen to one more." Severus drew a worn leather-bound book from behind his back. "Lucius Malfoy is my first cousin by marriage. He is also my second-cousin twice removed on my mother's side, and further, our great-great grandfathers were twin brothers."

"Inbred much?" Cass asked wryly through her tears.

"Rather. Are you aware of wizarding blood-law?"

"No."

"Three blood ties to any female constitutes kinship. In the event of a parent's death, any kinsman by three ties or more is obligated to name said female _combe frere_." Hermione translated the words and stood astonished. Cass just looked confused before Severus explained: "It means you don't have to be a Malfoy at all, by blood. For purposes of family, you can be my sister."

*************************************************************** 

Draco took the news surprisingly well that his godfather was adopting Cass _combe frere_. Hermione, mistress of tact, was just vague enough about bloodlines and just sincere enough about sentiment and 'kinship in times of war' that the blond boy didn't give it another thought.

"You do know what this means, though, Hermione?" he asked, looking faintly pleased. "I'll be related to _two_ Muggleborn Yankees. Won't my father shit himself?"

_'You have _no_ idea,'_ Hermione thought.

"What sort of gift would you suggest? You've been about Muggle-borns." 

"Gift?"

"It's tradition. Whenever your godfather adopts someone else or gets married or has a kid, you send a gift." 

"Snape's your godfather?"

"Of course. My godmother's my aunt -Bellatrix Lestrange. Uncle Severus sends rather better gifts."

"I'd imagine."

"So…do you suppose Professor Cass wants a new cauldron?" Draco frowned. "No, she's not really the potions sort. How about a wand holster? She certainly duels enough."

"Do both parties get a gift?"

"Why not? I enjoy shopping."

"You're a_ guy?"_

"I'm a rich little snob. I can buy anything I like and the salespeople treat me like a golden god." Draco made an expansive gesture, at which Hermione snorted.

"Do you like buying shoes?"

"No. My mother picked these out." Draco indicated his worn trainers. "Want to come along? You know what Cass and Uncle Severus each like."

_'You would not _believe_ what 'Uncle Severus' likes,'_ was Hermione's smutty thought.

"I suppose that'll be nice," she replied absently.

"What exactly made you fall in love with him?" 

Hermione looked up suddenly, only to see a very Dumbledore-esque look of understanding on Draco's face. "My mother figured it out and told me. I think it's about damn time he found someone."

*************************************************************** 

"So you know."

"It's rather pointedly obvious." Cass pulled off the Penguins cap that had been hiding her now-light hair. Narcissa, inured as she was, couldn't help but start at the sight of how the American resembled her husband and son. "Did you know?"

"I discovered the incident in Lucius' Pensieve. Your mother looked rather like you, but I didn't make the connection until Severus told me." The aristocratic lady sighed. "I can never apologize enough for you finding out this way."

"How can you stand being married to that…?" Cass, for once, didn't have a profanity bad enough. Narcissa shrugged.

"I assume, perhaps arrogantly, that my presence may stop him from committing further atrocities. I also try to conceal my feelings for Draco's sake."

"So he can have his rapist father around?"

"So he can have two parents. I didn't say my philosophy was sound. It's just that divorce in pureblood families is very cruel to the children."

"It's like that in all families," Cass said coldly. 

"Yes. And maybe I _am_ a fool. It's simply easier to stay than go."

"And yet you're here." The two witches were meeting in one of Richmond, Virginia's best Muggle hotels, in Narcissa's suite. Salazar and Katie Scarlett Malfoy were at Disney World with their small son Theodoric, so Narcissa had booked the penthouse while they were away. "Why America?"

"Name a harder place for Death Eaters to attack, or for me to give secrets to the Order from."

"In whose opinion?" Cass inquired sarcastically.

"Dear, Lucius has yet to hear of the telephone, let alone the Internet. The work you and your husband have done is above his head."

"Must be my mother's side." Narcissa laughed.

"I expect so. Lord knows where you get your sarcasm."

"I'm an American. This is considered 'realistic'."

"If it makes you feel any better, there are no others. Lucius has remained…he has not done certain things since his son was born." Narcissa couldn't quite use the word 'faithful' in her husband's case.

"So Draco's the only half-brother I've got?"

"Yes…he is, isn't he? You two get along?" 

"So far."

"You don't want to tell him?" Narcissa watched the American and smiled softly. "I don't blame you. He takes some things very well, but this is your secret. You can tell him when you want to, or not at all. It's entirely up to you."

"You seem almost used to this kind of thing."

"Cassandra, my specialty was mediwizardry. I'm in the habit of keeping myself calm so as not to make the ones who are hurting worse. Right now I don't know whether to feel sorry for you in the genes you inherited, or feel proud of you for handling it so well. To discover something like this, at a time like this, is the cruelest thing I can imagine."

"At least I got to be a witch out of it," Cass reasoned.

"Your mother was a Muggle?" Narcissa frowned in disbelief. Cass nodded and the blonde shook her head. "No chance. If she was a Muggle, why on earth did Lucius have to break her wand?"

********************************************************************************* 

A/N: Next chapter will be neat. Sorry for the short one this time. –J. McN.


	37. Tears

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Tears 

In the end it was all sorted out rather simply. Cass listened to Narcissa's account of the contents of Lucius' memory, then left the hotel, rented a thoroughly tasteless green car, drove north to Pittsburgh and opened James Alcott's storage space.

When Cass had been a very little girl, her father had hidden all of her mother's things in his grief. The storage space was at one of the multitude such facilities, and judging by the age of the gatekeeper and amount of rust on the steel fence, it hadn't seen much business recently. Cass didn't have the key or her father's code number, but six years of girls' hockey, four of Quidditch, and almost two of exceedingly creative biological recreations the likes of which Vatsyayana never dreamed about had left the werewolf with fairly good musclature. 

To put it most bluntly, she climbed the fence. 

There was a tense moment involving the rusty barbed wire and her left ankle, but Cass merely vowed to get a tetanus shot and leaped. She fell and rolled in a manner that would make Madam Hooch applaud, unfortunately reacquainting herself with Pennsylvania sticker-bush in the process. Several scrapes and creative curse words later, Cass found herself in front of several numbered gates.

She had seen her father's key once and knew the number was one-one-twelve. The gates were rather like unpanted garage doors, but where others were neatly, even lovingly tended to, 1112 had a dismally rusty lock and looked as though noone had visited it in more than two decades. Cass deftly pulled a bobby pin and a compass from the pockets of her worn denim jacket. Rusty locks were g-d hard to pick, she knew, but a second's thought reminded her of something. She put her picks away and Alohomora'd it. Sometimes it was _awfully_ nice to be a witch. The lock opened with a scraping click, red dust landing on the ground, and Cass removed it. With the padlock gone, it was just like her old garage door had been. Lift it up and it rolls away…

**************************************************** 

Antigone, it turned out, was a name used through some twenty generations of a faintly notorious pureblooded clan called the MacLanceys. They had moved _en masse_ to the Americas in the days of white wigs and knee-breeches 'out of sheer cussedness,' but their Scottish stubbornness had only seemed to increase with the new soil. In 1970, Antigone MacLancey the Umpteenth, a near-Squib with a strong interest in Arithmancy, had done the unthinkable. She had enrolled in a Muggle college. Her parents, who were very minor MacLanceys in the Clan Hierarchy scheme of things, had written this off as a passing phase. 'Rebellion,' they said, when the elders of the tribe inquired. 

A bachelors' degree in history education later, they changed the excuse to 'An experiment.' Antigone, however, despite angering her clan and confusing her close family, was growing, after four years, to love Muggles. She had immersed herself in their culture, diligently committing names of bands and plots of films to memory, while her understanding of wizarding history gave her a shocking edge in classes. Wizards, after all, had known what was _really_ going on. Her gifts with Arithmancy, curiously enough, had a very uncanny compatibility with several Muggle institutions and sciences, so with five hundred dollars and a pocket calculator she neatly skinned a fur coat off the stock market. She was thus wealthy enough on her own merits to live comfortably for many years, which the clan approved of, but she was also falling haplessly in love with Muggle life, which they did not. 

Eventually the ultimatum came: 'shape up or be disowned.' Antigone, being quite loyal to her parents, made an effort at shaping up. Unfortunately, a potions accident in 1975 removed them from the picture. At their funeral, the poor girl was weak with grief, but a sudden firm grasp of her two hands made her look up. 

She had been in almost every class with him for two of her four college years, but James Alcott had never been much more than a casual pal to her. The fact that he knew everything, from her favorite color to her favorite coat to her customary order at Primanti Brothers had seemed merely the result of a photographic memory. He had gotten the news of her parents out of her landlady and driven some ninety miles in a rented Yugo to comfort her. With her hands in his, Antigone suddenly realized he wanted to be her friend.

The MacLanceys, naturally, were not pleased by this. Jamie and Tigger, as their fellow students called them, had fallen from friendship into love at an alarming rate, and as their graduation neared, so did the possibility of an engagement. The last ultimatum came by owl the night before Antigone's graduation as a Ph.D. 'Leave him or leave the family.'

The owl returned with an envelope containing two pieces of a wand and a wedding invitation. It should be remarked that a few younger MacLancey cousins actually did attend, but their fate was likely stern chastisement from the clan. It didn't matter. Antigone and James were deliriously happy and began traveling the world. 

It seemed for a while that Antigone didn't miss magic. She had never been really much good at it, so it was no greater loss than perhaps that of algebra. In London, however, she noticed a display of baby clothes and an idea occurred to her. Any progeny of hers might be, conceivably, magical. She had never bothered to explain her family's heritage to James –'old and pompous' was really enough to cover it in his eyes. Still, there was a possibility, and they both wanted a child. While James visited a London chiropractor about a sore shoulder, Antigone made her way to Diagon Alley. Ollivander himself sold her a second wand, far better than the one she had broken upon leaving the MacLanceys. 

James found his beloved in hospital, with policemen speaking to the doctors as she trembled, unconscious.

*********************************************************

And her mother had kept a diary of the whole story.

It was a habit of Cass's that had always made her father slightly uneasy. Now she knew why. Rain had begun to fall, so she had simply pulled the door of the storage space shut and muttered a Lumos charm. It was cold and likely home to several large spiders, but Cass hadn't noticed as she read the history of the mother she'd never known.

'The nurse with the dark hair won the bet today. James and I have a little girl. The emphasis should be placed on little, as she seemed to barely fill the crook of her daddy's arm. Two weeks late and still so tiny. Six pounds, five ounces and eighteen inches long. Aren't those wonderful statistics? I swear I've had bigger sandwiches, but Cassie's so darling I definitely prefer- I forgot to mention it. Her name is Cassandra, after James' grandmother, that dear old lady who was so kind to me when we were first friends. James had one of his moments and added my first name as her middle one, which I don't mind at all, come to think of it. I never liked my name, but it's nice to know someone else can wear it also, like a pair of socks. Cassandra Antigone Alcott…sounds like an artist or great author. Her names are very classical, come to think of it. Cassandra foretold the doom of Troy, Antigone was a chick with bad luck and worse genes in Sophocles, and Alcott is literary enough to make anyone who's read up on the Great Awakening double-take. Very classical names. Professor Gordon was by just an hour ago and he seemed very pleased. The fact that James let him hold Cassie was likely part of it. She just looked around, didn't cry or fuss but had a sort of 'What the sod?' kind of expression. 'I was very comfy earlier, may I have my placenta back?' She has blue-gray eyes, as do all babies, apparently, but James swears they look like mine. He thinks everything good of hers is mine, but the hands I do agree with. A newborn whose fingers fan like that could only be my baby. Know what? That seems to be enough for James. The doubt is only mine now. He's fallen in love with little Cassie as hard and fast as I did with him and he with me. She's mine, that's all he gives a damn about. I love him so.'

A tear slid down little Cassie's face and she closed the book. It was almost the last entry in that volume, but she couldn't handle any more. She collapsed into sobs.

John Tyler knew his wife's scent better than he knew his own. He could also tell when she was distraught or tense, and sobbing behind a corrugated-metal door in a storage space could only be for one reason. He had a gentle touch, to which the door yielded almost silently, and within moments John had Cassie in his arms. 

"You're mine, eh?" he asked her in Wolfish. "Mine, your mother's…not much else matters?" A hopeful, querying sound accompanied the question.

"Mattered to me." Wolfish did not follow the patterns of English, or indeed, any human language, but it was far more communicative than words at times like these.

"Then to me as well it matters. Sad?"

"Worn-out, sad."

"Worn-out much. Cold." John took off the trenchcoat he had worn in the rain and pulled it around his mate. Cass slumped against him with a look that communicated futility and hopeless loss. John responded with an aura of abject love. He honestly didn't give a damn, either.

********************************************************** 

"Term starts tomorrow, love."

"Back to grading miserable attempts at proving they weren't asleep in class for me, and back to making sure Potter and Weasley learn _something_ for you."

"Yes, though it isn't as if I do their work for them."

"You merely hold the whip to their backs to make sure they do it right."

"Hey!" Hermione sounded slightly miffed. 

"Well, you must admit, love, you are a bit…" Severus chose a word he liked, "…domineering with those two."

_"Domineering?"_

"'Bossy' can be so inadequate."

"And where'd you get _that_ idea?"

"Potter and I had a civil conversation or two today. It is possible, you know."

"And what did you have to slip him?" Hermione asked.

"I violated the rules on giving alcohol to minors, but only by a little glass. He was curious."

"And the question of _why?"_

"I do have to teach the boy more Occlumency start of term."  Severus saw the look his lover was giving him and caved. "I also wanted a clue on what sort of things you like."

"Gods, first Cass, then Ginny, Draco and now Harry? Why don't you just ask me what I like?" 

"Because one, you might not realize what you like, two, you might be too shy to tell me, three, it's a challenge, four, I have to get used to your friends somehow, and five, asking you would be too easy."

It was, Hermione knew, a very Slytherin point of view, but sound. She thought for a moment and finally frowned at him.

"So I'm domineering?" Severus swallowed lightly.

"A bit. Only according to…well, you are."

"When have I ever been domineering to you?"

"You haven't, very much…yet?" Severus brightened and looked hopeful. After a moment of raised-eyebrow disbelief, Hermuione laughed.

"I don't have to ask your _friends_ what _you_ like."

**********************************************************

To noone's surprise when term started, the first years were terrified. They nearly always were, but this year quite a few of them had been getting more and more scary werewolf stories at home in preparation for their entry into an 'infested' school. Professor McGonagall waited for them at the top of the stairs, as always, except this year she was dressed…somewhat oddly.

"Good morrow, anklebiters," she greeted affably. "Welcome to Hogwarts. No spitting on the floor inside." A pudgy little boy glanced at the professor's green t-shirt and exceedingly tight jeans. "Spit it out, scruffy, why the stare?" McGonagall inquired.

"I…I thought professors wore robes."

"We do," a fairly testy voice observed. Professor McGonagall herself had appeared in full tartan regalia to arch an eyebrow at the imposter. "Must you _really_, Nymphadora?"

"Who, me?" The McGonagall in the t-shirt blurred and faded into the familiarly rakish form of Cass Tyler, a mischievous grin on her face. "Tonks is sitting in the Great Hall hitting on Severus."

"No, you aren't," McGonagall replied coolly. "For starters, dear, Cassandra is incapable of pronouncing two of the words you used. You are not _sittin'_ anywhere. And secondly, she hasn't used his given name since she arrived. He's called 'Sevvy' now."

"Yeah!" 

A pink-haired female with an 'Anarchy in the UK' t-shirt had appeared. "She's a Yank, na' a Londoner."

Professor McGonagall began to look mildly peeved.

"Exactly which one of the Weasley brothers talked you into this?"

Tonks and Cass turned back into Fred and George. Professor McGonagall jumped slightly, having expected _that_ last of all.

"Sorry," the two young entrepreneurs remarked, identically grinning.

"Took me a week to teach Gred the accent!" Cass cried from the hall.

"And Forge forgot to wear a bra!" Tonks added.

"Spare me," Minerva groused weakly.

************************************************************** 

Bill Weasley returned to Egypt and Gringotts, disconsolate. He had loved and lost, and maxim or none, it hurt like bloody hell. He tried to forget it by immersing himself in his work, but even the goblins could sense a broken heart. Clipring, a young female in his department, pretty by goblin standards, came up to him one day.

"Snap the fuck out of it," she commanded.

"Pardon me?"

"Whoever she –or _he_ was, they're not worth this miserable attitude. Shape up." Clipring made to go and Bill exploded.

"How the hell do you know whether she was worth it or not? I loved her more than life and she's- you miserable little clot, how dare you…"

Obscenities rained down on the young goblin for quite a few moments while she listened patiently, but finally Bill's voice broke and the sobs started. Clipring reached up and put a hand on his shoulder as he knelt. 

"Good. Now you can grieve."

"I don't want to get over it."

"You don't have to. But you need to grieve for your loss or you're going to die."

"How do you-?"

"Just trust me, human. I know your kind."

Within the month, Bill was less fanatical about work. He was still sad, lonely, and generally mournful at times, but he was on the road to recovery. Goblins could really be great friends at times.

Maria's ordeal, however, had just begun.

************************************************************* 


	38. Secrets

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Secrets

There were exceedingly few places the Tylers could not spy on. St. Mungo's, fortunately, was not one of them. 

_"Twins?"_

"Yep."

"Are you sure?"

"Two _are_ twins, right? Triplets are three."

"Good point. What sort are they?"

"One of each."

"How big are they?"

John held his hands apart like he was holding a football.

"About so." Cass and Blaise sighed as one.

"You didn't listen for how much they weighed?"

"Eight pounds, four ounces and four pounds, two."

_"What?"_

"The boy one's bigger." John frowned. "Almost like he was trying to crowd his sister out. Sort of strange, eh?"

"To say the least." Cass had a stern look starting on her face. "I'll go and let the other professors know."

*********************************************************** 

The door of the hospital room suddenly banged open and shut. Maria looked up and squinted. She saw noone there.

"Twins?" a disembodied voice asked.

"Yes," Maria mumbled tiredly, before realizing she was talking to nobody. "Who's there?"

"Me."

"That's so helpful."

"Are they both okay?"

Maria suddenly sighed with relief.

"Professor Tyler."

The Invisibility charm suddenly dissolved and Cass appeared. She set her wand down on Maria's bed, perching on the end of it.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Your voice." Maria sighed and sipped from her water glass. "Noone else talks like that."

"Thanks awfully. How are they?"

"Alive." Maria's expression and tone were a study in disconsolatude. "The one's in there." She gestured to a bassinet. Cass gave Maria a look of pity as she crossed the room to where the small baby lay. "That's the girl."

"Awwww!" Cass, it seemed, was one of those people who could find even baby flobberworms cute; not that Maria's daughter left anything to be desired in the cuteness department. "She has eyes!"

"Most babies do." Maria had almost laughed.

"I mean dark ones." Cass smiled and wiggled some fingers at the baby. "Most babies come with blue. They're your eyes."

"The boy has Milton's look. That's who he's with right now."

Cass stiffened at the mention of Milton's name.

"Why isn't he with his mother?"

"Because Milton's family is afraid I might hurt the heir."

"And they aren't afraid for the girl?"

"She's a girl. They don't give a damn."

"Bastards," Cass swore. Maria's expression didn't change and the professor spoke to her quietly. "You aren't supposed to let people swear in front of your kid, Maria."

"I don't know if I give a damn, either."

There was a long silence.

"May I hold her?" Cass inquired hopefully.

"Sure." With surprising care, Cass lifted up the tiny infant. "Watch her head!" Maria cautioned. Cass gave her a smirky grin.

"I think you give a damn." With the baby safely in the crook of her arm, Cass reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a folded object. "This was mine…I felt she'd like it." With a snap of the wrist, Cass let the pink blanket unfurl before she wrapped the little baby girl in it. 

"Thank you."

"They weren't expecting twins, I figured, and they wanted a boy, so it didn't seem like she'd have many things in pink."

"No, she doesn't."

"You do now," Cass told the baby. "Your mad auntie Cass will make sure you have lots and lots of pink things to wear. And when you get bigger, you shall have flared bluejeans and a Penguins shirt to piss your…father off." Maria smiled faintly and Cass turned to her. "What's her name?"

"I haven't decided. It has to rhyme somehow with Jeremy…that's what they named the boy."

"Miserable -sacks of used Kotex…" Cass censored her language. "Jem's short for Jeremy. Why not Jen?"

"Jen?" A slow smile crept onto Maria's face. "It's a little short…Jennifer?"

"How 'bout it?" Cass asked the baby. "Are you a Jennifer?" The little infant made a sound and yawned. "I think she is. How 'bout a middle name or six?"

_"Six?"_

"Well, at _least_ one."

"Blaise. She's my best friend, and they won't mind a pureblood name." A sudden idea occurred to Maria. "Jennifer Blaise Cassandra. They'll think it's after Cassandra Trelawney."

"Naw," Cass smiled. "This baby's too clever to be called that. Aren't you a clever girl? Yes, you're clever. You're going to do great things." Maria smiled sadly at her professor and daughter. She knew that Cassandra deserved a child more than she wanted this one.

"Take her with you."

"What?"

"Take her. The Blodgetts won't care about a girl. Raise her to be a mad liberal American and let her have friends from every house."

"Maria, I…" Cass glanced at the infant and for a split second Maria knew she wanted to obey. "Maria, she's yours. A pureblood father's bad, but a drunken werewolf who could get killed in the war is worse." Cass gave the young mother a crooked half-smile. "I'll just be her crazy aunt."

"How about her godmother?" Maria was beginning to look desperate. "Not on paper, they'd never allow it. But secretly, I'd pick you to look out for her."

"Maria, I'd look out for her if she belonged to a Tibetan yak." Cass smiled. "Thank you." With a look of pride, the American looked over her secret godchild. "You have such pretty eyelashes…why is her hair still wet?"

"She's only an hour old."

"Oh." With a corner of the pink blanket, Cass gently rubbed some of the moisture out, being careful of the soft spot on little Jennifer's head. "You'll be _stylin'_ once your hair's dry… _Maria!"_

"What?"

"Have you _looked_ at your daughter?"

"Why?"

Purposefully, with the infant still in her arms, Cass strode across the floor to Maria's bedside. She gestured to the newborn baby's downy thatch of hair and uttered a single word.

"Red."

Maria looked, and gasped in abject astonishment a second later when she realized the werewolf was right. Noone in her family, nor in Milton's, had red hair, whereas Bill Weasley's was almost notorious. Her daughter was a Weasley.

"But- -but it's impossible!"

"Considering the evidence, Maria, I think it is!" A broad, merry grin had suddenly darted onto Cass's face, making the calm smile of earlier look like a mere smirk by comparison. "The boy's Milton's, y'said? Fraternal twins have different fathers all the _time_ in tabloid newspapers and medical journals…you're free, Maria! You don't have to stay with that great git Blodgett! I'll get you the best divorce lawyer in America _and_ England, plus I can have the whole goddamn Aurory take him out of the picture for what he did! Little Jen, your dad's going to be so pleased!"

"Will he?" Maria cut in coldly. Cass stopped grinning as if she had been smacked.

"Maria, he…"

"Doesn't know and doesn't need to know." Maria had picked up Cass's wand from the bedspread. With a deft motion, she put a charm on the baby's hair. _"Follicus rechromus!"_

Baby Jen's tuft of red hair was now an obsidian shade of black.

"Maria!" Cass looked, horrified, at the baby in her arms. "You can't do that to her!"

"Oh, can't I? I can spring a bastard child on Bill, ruin his life with it, and drag him and her through the messiest divorce the Ministry can cook up! I can let the Blodgetts make attempts on her life and his until they succeed! I can force Jen into a life worse and more confusing than mine ever was!"

"More confusing, Maria, but you can't _get_ much worse." Cass was angry now. "You at least have to tell him he has a child!"

"I sincerely doubt he would want one, Professor! The school rules about ratting your students out don't apply to dropouts and teen mothers!"

"The human rule of decency still applies!"

"Decency? This from you?" Maria's voice woke the newborn, but Jen didn't cry. "The professor who would happily have killed one of her students for a crime?" Cass didn't flinch at the mention of Milton's injury, nor did she protest. "Come to think of it, human rules don't apply to you! You're a werewolf and a Muggle-born! You have no idea how pureblood families work!"

"I am the bastard of a McLancey and a Malfoy, you ignorant twit!" Cass had at least the sense to put Jen in the bassinet before she yelled again in a loud, steely voice. "Cast a dispellment charm on me and watch! I fucking dare you!"

_"Finite incantatem!"_

Maria hadn't expected anything small, but the shock of her professor's burgundy hair going white-blond was larger than she was prepared to deal with. "Merlin's ghost…You really are, aren't you?"

"Yes, Maria, I'm as pureblooded as they come. I haven't told anyone but you." The Slytherin girl's eyes lit up and her voice grew more hysterical.

"So you have to keep my secret, or I'll tell yours!"

"And what if you do? Everyone's bound to find out anyway, and then Malfoy'll kill me and John'll kill him and the Death Eaters'll kill John and the rest of them, but not before we kill Voldemort! There is nothing but death in my future, Maria, no matter what I do or who I am! I have seen what is to come and it is my grave, but I'll be goddamned if I go to it alone!" 

This tirade was cut off abruptly by a fit of coughing from the werewolf. Maria relaxed suddenly.

"Professor…?"

"Yeah?" Cass gasped.

"You can tell Bill if you want. I won't tell on you."

"Not that it would matter if you did."

"I just don't know if Bill…he didn't want her any more than I did."

Cass's cold blue eyes went soft.

"Maria, you _did_ want her, and so did he." A single tear slid down the werewolf's cheek. "I don't know whether you know it yet, but there's no other way she could have been born at all." 

"Honestly?" Maria asked.

"On my honor as…I haven't got honor."

"True." Maria's voice trembled as she raised the wand. "Me, neither. _Obscurus minutus!"_

*************************************************************** 

"So the girl's named Jennifer?" Blaise asked.

"Jennifer Blaise Blodgett," Cass agreed cheerfully. "She has the most pretty dark eyes."

"Was she healthy and everything?" Hermione asked. 

"She's a little small, but yeah." Cass had returned from the hospital with a very cheery look on her face. It hadn't faded yet in the course of the evening, even when a crateload of books arrived wanting autographs. "Would you believe she didn't even wake up when I sneezed?"

"Sneezed? Was it cold?"

"Naw, I just sneezed really hard and Maria said 'bless you.' Little Jen didn't so much as bat an eye, the dear." Cass sneezed again, but not loudly. "There i'goes again. I might have that flu bug of yours, Hermione."

"Speaking of, is it any better?" Blaise inquired.

"The tea you made helped, but I miss the potion." Hermione frowned and lowered her voice. "I've got cramps you'd not _believe_ since Madam Pomfrey took me off it."

"Can't Sevvy cook up one that's okay to take?" Cass asked.

"The flu potions all turn to cyanide with anti-menstrual stuff. It's pathetic. Something about the wormwood in one of them."

"Well, that leaves Muggle remedies, doesn't it?" Blaise asked, pulling a little box from her pocket. "I'm allergic to the one contraceptive, so there's no anti-menstruals I can take with the one I'm on. This is called Midol."

"Ugh, don't take that," Cass advised. "Makes your guts wambly."

"Advil, then?" Blaise suggested cheerfully. "I've got a small Muggle pharmacy in my trunk upstairs."

"Where do you get it?" Hermione inquired.

"I have an aunt who's a Squib and she sends me stuff."

"Can't she send any Muggle contraceptive things?" Cass asked. "Because then you'd…oh."

"Exactly. My aunt is only cool in some areas."

"Well, f'rchrissakes, what are Yankish professors for? I can take the whole sixth and seventh-year classes of girls on a great How Not To Get Knocked Up fieldtrip."

"Run _that_ past the school governors," Ginny joked.

"Those old farts wouldn't know a sex drive if it ran them over," Cass remarked. "Professor McGonagall understands."

"Mental pictures!"

"You know," Hermione observed, holding up a copy of Cass and John's book. "I bet you could rework this for Muggles and they'd like it just as much."

"Have I –shit. I signed one twice." Cass tossed the offending book onto the pile of its' brothers. "Collectors' item, that."

"Why are you signing them all here?" Ginny asked. "You could do like Lockhart and have parties for it."

"Because John and I are the anonymous authors of this generations great smut classic. Conservative old biddies might picket a book signing."

"Right after they owl-ordered their own copies," Blaise jested. "Exactly how much money are you guys making on this thing?"

"Too much. John's given quite a bit to St. Mungo's research already, and I have a small surprise for the Quidditch teams coming up."

"What?" Ginny's eyes were wide. "Firebolts for all?"

"What a great idea!" Cass got a piece of paper. "I'll order twenty Firebolts. Actually, I'm going to have the pitch renovated and named after someone Umbridge really hates."

"Like who?" Hermione smiled.

"I don't know. Anyone controversial. The goal is to piss her off." Cass made an errantly arrogant gesture. "Money's no fun except for spending it on being offensive."

"Fred and George would heartily agree with you," Ginny remarked.

"Especially since I've bankrolled a second Weasley's Wizard Wheezes shop in Hogsmeade?" Cass grinned. "That was the other surprise. Would a statue of somebody for the school be fun?"

"One of Harry?" Ginny suggested. "Have him sitting around with a comic book, looking really ordinary."

"Or Fred and George flying off and Peeves saluting."

"One of Umbridge nude?" Cass mused.

"Ewww!" Hermione had gone ashen. "Scare the first-years, wot?"

"I've a better idea." Blaise grinned. "A statue of Umbridge in the girls' room, with her mouth open. We could use a good rubbish can in there."

***************************************************************** 

A/N: Warning. Next chapter contains a wee bit of a certain tangy citrus fruit. Reviews?


	39. Renovation

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Renovation

"You want them to _what?"_ Severus roared. "Albus, that's the most half-baked, rattle-pated idea I have ever had the misfortune to-"

"Shut your gob, Sevvy," Minerva chastised. "It was my idea and I've already warned them to prepare."

"But you saw what those half-crazed horse-people did to Umbridge! What if Hermione and Cassandra can't-"

"I think the girls are a bit nicer than the Toadwoman," John observed calmly, closing the staffroom door behind him. "And the centaurs aren't really human or horse at all. S'one of their touchy points."

"Exactly why this is a bad idea!" Severus went on. Everyone looked at him as if he were mad, but Minerva, Albus and John knew why he was worried. "Those beasts have more touchy points than Moaning Myrtle and Cassandra Tyler has less tact than…I doubt if she has _any!"_

"Well, she does _have_ some, just hasn't used it in quite a bit," John explained, smiling dreamily. "'Sides, we'll have Portkeys on she and Hermione both, just in case they need to get out of the Forest quick." There was something about the taciturn werewolf's voice, when he used it, that made everyone calmer. 

"And the only ambassador for humans is Hermione," Albus added. "Cassandra is representing the ancient and powerful race of the werewolf, which has been discriminated against by humankind just as much, if not more, than that of the centaurs. That makes her equal to them, and the fact that she's a bitten and not a born werewolf makes her equal to humans."

"_Cassandra's_ the referee?" Snape had a fair point there. The only professor more biased than he was the teacher of Yankish. "Honestly, have you all dropped a bolt?"

"Beautifully spoken, Sev." Cass shut the door behind Hermione as both females entered. There were purple stains on the Yank's forehead and arms, as well as a weird headband of flowers on her head. "You've been around me too long."

"Cassandra, I forbid you both to enter the Forbidden Forest. I'd sooner go myself."

"Too late," Cass and Hermione said as one.

"We just got back," Hermione explained. "Everything we could have hoped for went through, Headmaster."

"But I only told you to prepare for it this morning!" Professor McGonagall protested. "How on earth did you-"

"If we had gone later, we might've missed the Quidditch game," Cass explained. "Hermione'd already read over everything the library had on diplomacy, and my Auror books had some on it, so we just off and went."

"And the verdict was?" Remus Lupin asked.

"The centaurs will oppose Lord Voldemort uniformly," Cass announced. "There now exists a temporary state of truce between the races, for which cession the centaurs request the Ministry get its' head out of its' arse once the war's over. I promised them it would have to anyway if I had anything to say about it, and they seemed to find that exceedingly amusing."

"The centaur leader made Cass an honorary member of the Forbidden Forest's tribe," Hermione added, gesturing to the strange headdress and berry-juice markings. 

"I'm a hound," Cass explained proudly. There were several chortles at that pronouncement.

"Apparently centaurs used to keep hunting hounds, who enjoyed tribal status in ancient times, and since Cass is to them more a wolf than a human, they have made her one of them …as a hound." Even Hermione was giggling. "Fancy a bone, there, Professor?"

"I think it's cool," Cass said defensively. "I had to catch a squirrel in my mouth and release it unharmed to join, but I've done weirder things at parties."

"So the Forest is closed off to Death Eaters?" Snape inquired, reluctantly dissolving the frown on his stern face to replace with a look of abject relief. "Well, it was still ridiculously dangerous, but if no harm came of it, I suppose it's alright."

"So good of you to approve, Severus," Dumbledore remarked calmly, blue eyes twinkling. "Exactly what did the initiation entail, Cassandra?"

"Well, I caught my squirrel and let it go, in wolf form of course," she explained. "Then I went human and Ronan's foal, Bern, put the marks on me." She gestured to the long streak of berry juice down her nose. "This one means I'm a girl hound, and the two lines on my cheek are my color when I'm a wolf, and the stripe down my chin means I'm mated and not a puppy. The crowny thing is just a kind of hat the centaurs wear when they have dancing."

"You witnessed the centaurs' dance?" Lupin asked, amazed. 

"Witnessed? Hermione and I _did_ it." 

"It's sort of pathetic with only two legs, but very aerobically effective." Hermione rubbed a sore calf muscle. "I'd teach you their choreography sometime, but it's one of those secret centaur things."

"Somewhere between the Time Warp and a square dance, really," Cass explained. "I'm exhausted."

***************************************************************** 

Hermione knew it wouldn't do at all for the Slytherins to see her sneak into their Professor's private rooms. The solution of borrowing Harry's cloak only worked if she brought back clandestine treats from the kitchens afterward, and with her own room as Head Girl, it was kind of hard to return it before morning. Cass had had a brilliant idea, actually, flagrantly against the rules and decidedly clever; which was bribing a house-elf to activate a Floo connection between she and Severus' rooms every night they planned to meet. 

But Hermione knew better than anyone that house-elves' loyalties could be strange, so she had solved the problem in a typically Marauder-esque way. She had connected the fireplaces herself, permanently. It took her almost a month and more trips to a hardware-type store in Hogsmeade than were worth mentioning, but finally she managed it.

She was looking forward to the look on Severus' face all day as she shopped with Ginny, Blaise, Lavender and Parvati. The Yule Ball was to be exceptionally opulent this year, as a kind of 'up yours!' gesture to the Dark, and their dress robes, consequently, had to be equally off-the-charts. Hermione's parents had sent her an extremely generous amount of money 'to have fun with,' and since American Muggle money had a much better exchange rate to Galleons and such than pounds, it was far more generous than even they had intended. Ginny, however, had been getting a little frowny about the nose when she checked price tags.

"Hermione," she whispered suddenly. "Can I borrow your robes from last year? I'll transfigure them back when I'm done with them."

"Ladies!" the voice of the shopkeeper there cried. Lavender and Parvati went totally ashen and nearly dropped the robes they had been going to try on. Blaise simply put her hands in the air.

"I did _not_ do it!" The saleslady didn't seem to hear.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask your names earlier…but are you five the ones on this list?"

Blaise looked at the paper the lady was holding out.

'Lavender Brown, plenty of lace  
Hermione Granger, something blue  
Parvati and Padma Patil, different sets of robes for once  
Virginia 'Ginny' Weasley, the most expensive you have for redheads  
Blaise Zabini, nothing in black.'

"Yes, we are. Who is it-?"

"This is highly unusual," the saleslady explained, a mischievous grin breaking across her face, "but your ensembles for the Ball are already paid for. Choose anything you like."

"By whom?" Lavender looked exceedingly pleased. "A secret admirer?"

"More likely a wealthy gentleman whose mistress is one of your friends," the saleslady observed wryly. "Or perhaps someone with bets on what the five of you will wear."

Hermione glanced at the list.

"No black for Blaise?" She gave her friends a wry smile. "This positively reeks of Cass."

"I think she looks good in black," the professor observed, stepping out of a dressing room. She had on a somewhat scandalously-cut gown in emerald green satin, with silver and gold serpent embroidery. It clashed wildly with the orange-and-pink scrunchie on her ponytail. "Too much?"

There was a hacking sound as Parvati swallowed her chewing gum. The scruffy American had gone from an absent-minded looking pedagogue slash rock and roll junkie to a drop-dead knockout. It was ever so slightly offensive to the fashionistas of Gryffindor, just like Hermione's brush with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion.

"Professor!"

"Where did you find it?"

"Who did your makeup?"

"What the fuck?" Cass backed away as the girls came at her, neatly tripping and knocking over a mannequin, which smoothed the dress it wore and stood back up with a vague 'humph' sound. From the floor, Cass managed to gasp out a question: "Idn't this how I always look?"

"Professor Cass, you've pulled a Cinderella on us," Blaise informed her. "You look like a refugee from _'Witch Weekly'_sfashion spread."

"You mean it fits okay?"

"Sweetheart, the word we use here for a dress like this on a body like yours is 'damn,'" a fruity-seeming salesman announced. "And you were hiding that figure in _coveralls_ –I'm shocked. Really."

"But I _like_ coveralls," Cass murmured. 

"Honey, what you need are some _diamonds_ to go with this. There's an emerald-and-diamond set at J. Boutonnière's that'll be just the thing. And for gods' sakes, get that _obscene_ scrunchie out of your hair." The salesman pulled the scrunchie loose, releasing the tangled burgundy mess that was Cass's hair, and shot it across the room. "Like putting rubies into a paper sack. Honey-child, when last did you _brush_ this hair?"

"Uhhh…Tuesday?"

"Get that dress off. You're _going_ to the salon _right now_ if I have to use the Imperius. Now, now, now! Step to!" Cass obediently (and frightenedly,) scurried back into the dressing room and the salesman began to fan himself with a very large, very lilac handkerchief. "Honestly, that girl and her coveralls. I feel like I'm grooming a collie here." Blaise and Hermione stifled snorts, but clearly not quite well enough, because he turned on them next. "_You_ must be Hermione," he observed, taking her gracefully by the hand. "And Blaise, _dahling_, I'd know you anywhere, even wearing _that_. Sweet girl, who _died_ and took all your _clothes?"_

The garment in question was a 'Screw Umbridge With a Broom' t-shirt, courtesy of a screen-printing kit Cass had mistakenly let Blaise use. 

"Do you like it?" the Slytherin inquired, turning around like a modle on the runway. The reverse side read, quite simply, 'Brush End First.'

"Oh, honey, _now_ I do!" The salesman looked indeed to be very pleased. "Did you hear about her little crusade for wizards' morality? She shut down the Sticky Lick for _two whole weeks_ on some bullshit sanitation charge!"

_"No!"_ Blaise's ears went absolutely white, the sign that she was infuriated to the point of insanity. "That…that _cow!"_

Hermione made a tiny sound and Blaise immediately reverted to hostess mode. "Oh, Hermione, this is Johnny Mulrosey. He's a fashion columnist for half the magazines in Europe."

"The other half being under Toadwoman's thumb," Johnny remarked grouchily.

"So what brings you to Hogsmeade?" Hermione asked.

"Personal fashion consultant bit. You would not believe what some posh goddess is paying to get your Professor there looking less like a Weird Sister or a Muggle mechanic."

"Posh goddess?" Hermione asked.

"The same lady who's picking up the tab for Yule Ball getups for all of you," Johnny explained with a secretive gesture. "Her orders were that Cass Tyler and her handmaidens be _fabulous_ for the Ball."

"And you're the fairy godmother?" Blaise snorted.

"Well, when you want the best," Johnny explained. "Merlin's dildoes, what's _taking_ that girl so long? Cassie!"

The flamboyant fashion-man went to go check on Cass and Hermione bent close to Blaise.

"Exactly what _is_ the Sticky Lick?" Blaise looked as if her friend had gone mad.

"Best gay bar in wizarding London, why?" Hermione's eyes went momentarily wide and Blaise smiled. "Come on, Granger, you didn't think I was stric'ly-dickly, did you? Half of Slytherin swings both ways."

"And the …other half?" Hermione managed to gasp.

"Either in the closet, flaming fairy or occasionally straight." Blaise sighed. "Draco and Professor Snape are the only straight _guys_ in there, y'know. Crabbe an' Goyle could make y'_sick_."

At that moment, Cass reemerged, looking her scruffy self in the gray coveralls she kept for working on Dingo's engine. Johnny seemed on the verge of collapse merely from the sight of their t-shirts and jeans, so Blaise, Hermione and Ginny found themselves along for the ride to every womens' haunt in Hogsmeade. One hairdresser at the salon worked a small miracle on Hermione's mane while another turned Blaise's nearly black minibraids into a stylish and shockingly adult updo. Ginny's red hair moved one hairdresser to tears of ecstasy when he saw how well maintained and naturally highlighted it was, while a small SWAT team worked, clouds of products and steam surrounding them, on the disheveled disaster that was Cass. Several French manicures, disturbingly relaxing facials, and nearly an hour under magical hairdryers later, the four femmes fatale emerged. On a whim, Hermione let one of the 'beauty technicians' there pierce her ears, something she hadn't had the nerve to do in the Muggle world. It didn't even tingle.

Next came the clothing stores. Cass's coveralls narrowly escaped a rubbish can or Johnny's actually burning them, but Blaise finally succeeded in getting an oath not to wear the things in public hammered out. While Cass, Blaise and Ginny were being intensely fascinated by toe socks, a Muggle invention quite new to wizardkind, Hermione managed to get Johnny alone.

"What would you suggest for –erm…underwear?"

"_Lingerie_, dear. Underwear is for senior citizens." Johnny looked Hermione up and down. "With your figure, there's not much you _can't_ do. What look are you going for?" A blank, slightly blushing look was all she could quite manage. "Okay, do you want tastefully sultry, nervously virginal, leather let's-scare-the-man, or smoldering temptress?"

"Ummm…"

"Your kind of guy wouldn't fancy the slutty type, and leather might show through with your figure, not to mention it itches. I'd say tastefully sultry." Hermione managed a nod despite her scarlet face and ears. "Don't worry, dear. You're in my capable hands."

************************************************************** 

A/N: Lemon unfortunately delayed due to shopping trip. Sorry.


	40. Snow and Scottish Preschoolers

Chapter Forty: Snow and Scottish Preschoolers

_(In which Professor Snape catches Hermione riding Ginny and is Not Pleased.)_

"What's a fifty?" Blaise asked Hermione.

"A fifty-meter relay, down the lane and back. The flip-turn is the hardest part."

"See, I never really understood swimming," Cass remarked dryly. "You're in the water, flailing like a very graceful spastic water bug, trying to bash your hand off the edge of a hard concrete wall before four or five other spastic water bugs do." Hermione smiled at her professor and asked:

"So, when did your team race?"

"Summer. We never won the league meet, but...aw!" 

Blaise and Ginny laughed. For all her bluster, Cass was actually quite fond of some Muggle sports. Anything Muggle-related was fascinating to Ginny, and Blaise loved competition, so Hermione's tales of her summer swim team were amusing.

"Anyway, after I had done two fifties butterfly and was just toweled, the ruddy coach comes over, grabs me by the wrist and tells me one of the girls was puking a blue streak. I had to do a one hundred backstroke right after butterfly. It felt like my arms were going to fall off." Only Cass seemed to understand what Hermione meant, but then, she had been on a swim team herself. 

"Miserable. I stuck to strict freestyle." Cass replied. "Speaking of, my arms are ready to fall off _now_."

They were all standing, arms outstretched, having their dress robes altered. Blaise had asked Hermione how she could endure it so well, which brought up the old swim-team anecdotes. Cass had the heaviest load on her shoulders, considering the length of the flowing satin butterfly sleeves she wore. "Shoulders _hurt_, want to _die_…"

"Oh, Cassie, you're such a baby," Johnny chastised, reappearing with a tray of food. "Those sleeves have got to be let out at least three inches. It's not my fault you have the arms of a young Celestina Warbeck." 

"Or an _old_ giant squid," Cass mumbled grouchily. Blaise put on her sweetest smile.

"Are some of those treats for us?"

"Blaise, darling, you all are _not_ going to get crumbs on these dress robes."

"Then could you put a donut in my mouth yourself?" the Slytherin pleaded. "I'm hungry!"

And so it was thus that the flamboyant fashion-man went up and down the line of immobilized females, feeding them like baby birds from a fat sack of powdered sugar coated donut holes.

"Oh, thit," Cass remarked suddenly.

"What?"

"My mouf ith all powder-thugary."

"No problem!" Johnny ran and opened a butterbeer, added a drinking straw, and held it to Cass's lips. "Drink."

"Me next!" Blaise called. Johnny moved the straw to her.

"Now me!" Ginny was really into the spirit of this game. If Johnny was going to make them hold still for this long, they were going to run his little last-season Pradas off.

************************************************************************* 

"Mr. _Potter,_ what are you up to?" 

"This book, sir…it's Hermione's." Harry held up the black volume he had found on his professor's desk. "What's it doing here?"

"That is none of your business."

"But, sir…"

"But _what,_ Mr. Potter? If your friend chooses to lend certain items to people _other_ than you and Weasley, it is surely none of _your_ concern."

"Yes, sir, but what do you think of it?"

"What?"

"The book, sir." Harry nervously showed him the seventh or eighth page, which to Severus' eyes was an especially …incriminating little missive from Hermione to himself. "I didn't know you liked Douglas Adams, sir." 

Merciful peace. The charm made the pages look like a book the person had already read.

"I've _always_ liked Douglas Adams, Mr. Potter," Severus lied. "What's so strange about that?"

"But he's a…"

"A Muggle?"

"Well, yes, sir."

"Muggles can be clever existentialist philosophers," the professor replied, hoping to the deities that this Adams fellow didn't write poetry. "Mr. Adams especially."

"He is, isn't he?" Potter observed, turning the book's pages. "Like what he said about the planet Earth and the mice."

"Yes, I found that passage quite witty." Severus was flying by the seat of his pants and he knew it. "What do you think of the –erm, metaphors?"

"Oh, they're the best part of the book, sir. Like in Chapter Seven, when he says that Vogons have about as much sex appeal as a road accident, that always makes me laugh."

"I…also found that funny."

"What about Eccentrica Gallumbits?"

Severus barely restrained a gasp.

"Oh, yes…that part was…very amusing."

"I was never quite sure if that was possible, Professor," Harry explained, flipping through the book to a certain passage. "'Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon Six…' I mean, how can she have three breasts? It defies physics."

Okay, this was not going well. Potter had loosened up towards him a bit more, clearly, and he was likely following Hermione's advice by trying to have a conversation about books. If only the boy had chosen something he had read –or something _marginally_ logical, things would be simpler.

"Well, you see, P- Harry," Severus explained, going positively scarlet. "Women as a _species_ defy physics. Look at their high-heeled shoes."

"Not Hermione," Harry scoffed. "She's got an ounce of sense." Severus bit his lip.

"What do you mean?"

"Professor, you've seen the way she dresses. Except for the Yule Ball, she's a normal person, not a Maybelline science project like Pansy Parkinson." Harry set the book down and smiled nervously. "Isn't that why you get along with her now, sir? Because she's the only one who isn't a dunderhead?"

"Who said that I get along with her?" Snape asked, trying his best to look bristly and offended.

"Professor Cass, sir."

"Do you mean Professor Tyler?"

"Yes, sir, only she's asked us to call her Professor Cass, to keep she and her husband straight."

"Potter, this is meant to be detention, you do realize that?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, picking up the scrub brush again.

************************************************************************* Finally, after a long, arduous morning of being made over, the four girls began the walk back to Hogwarts. With the Yule Ball in a few days, Johnny had decided not to reveal the results of their transformation until the last minute; leaving the students in their weekend clothes and Cass back in the 'godawful' coveralls. It was finally starting to snow lightly, and there was a neat dusting on the shoulders of the females' coats. 

"I want something," Cass observed, "but I don't know what."

"Hot chocolate?" Ginny suggested.

"Maybe that's it. Come on, I'm buying."

Several whipped-cream topped mugs later, the professor sighed. "I don't think that was it."

Hermione was just about to suggest something when a small voice interrupted them.

"Hi."

It was a small boy, perhaps two or three years old, with dark red hair and a nervous smile on his little face. Cass, startled, replied:

"Hello."

"Whe' my mum?" The boy had what sounded like a Scottish accent, on top of a speech impediment that turned 'l' into 'w.'

"Excuse me?"

"Whe' my mum?"

"Are you lost?"

"Yep!" The little fellow seemed fairly proud of this. Cass gulped hard as Blaise struggled not to laugh.

"Oh…" The professor seemed fairly stricken by this attitude. "Well, what's your name?"

"Canna' tew you."

"Why?"

"You a s'wanger."

Cass stared at the little boy, even as her tablemates restrained mirthful cries. 

"Turn around," she commanded gently. The little boy did, and Cass read the label inside his coat. "Donaghan McPhersen?" He nodded and gave the professor a big smile. 

"Neat! How'd you know that the kid was marked?" Ginny asked.

"Your mother." Cass was busy pulling up another chair and setting a folded coat on it. Ginny sniffed, a little offended. "No, really, your mother. She told me to label all …my kids' clothes." The momentary flicker was hidden as Cass lifted up the little boy onto the seat and moved the pretzels toward him. "Alright kid, spill it."

Donaghan reached over and tilted the bowl of pretzels so that a few fell out. 

"Er…no. I meant tell me where you lost your parents."

"At 'Ogwarts." The little boy picked up a fistful of the pretzels and began happily to scarf them down. Cass, momentarily floored, let him continue. "Mum and Da' gon' talk ta' Dumbwedow."

"So how the sod did you get to Hogsmeade, mate?" Blaise inquired. Donaghan merely shrugged and stuffed another pretzel into his mouth. Cass stood up and put on her best 'professor' look.

"Come on, little Scotsman. We're going to find your folks."

"You a s'wanger."

"I'm a stranger with pretzels. My name's Cass Tyler. Come with me." She held out a calloused hand, which Donaghan trustingly put his little one into. He climbed off the chair with a bit of help, whereupon Cass swung her coat over her shoulders rather than put her arms in the sleeves. She seemed a bit afraid to let go of the little boy's hand. Blaise, Ginny and Hermione joined her and their new charge.

After quickly paying the café bill, Cass and the girls began to lead the little boy down the main street toward Hogwarts. He was a sturdy little fellow, but his shoes sometimes failed him on the now-icy cobblestones. After the second time stopping a fall, Cass crouched and got a look at his shoes. They were Muggle-made, oddly enough, and so shiny as to make her think his parents had made him get dressed-up. 

"Lift up your foot." He did. The soles were smooth as the frozen lake. Definitely dress shoes. What were those gits thinking? "Alright, Donnie, you can't walk in those." Cass crouched lower and let go of his hand. "On my back." 

The small Scot had soon mounted the professor-pony and taken a firm grip on the beret straps of her coveralls. Cass realized his shoes were too wet to wear and removed them. "Tie the laces together, Blaise." She then slipped each of Donaghan's socked feet into one of her hip pockets, where, she knew, they would stay nicely warm.

It was this strange party that met Professor Snape near the Great Hall's entrance. Blaise had Donaghan's wet shoes over her shoulder and had lent him her scarf. The scarf was now the 'pony's bridle, with Cass holding it in her teeth and neighing convincingly. Hermione was riding Ginny in a similar fashion, as it simply didn't seem fair to Donaghan for only him to go pick-a-back, and they were having a pony race. Given the fact that Ginny had gotten the same height genes as Percy while Hermione and Blaise were still petite English girls, it seemed the best choice of steeds. Blaise delivered what she felt was acceptable running commentary:

"And Granger pulls ahead on the strawberry roan –wait for it! McPhersen has just rounded the curve on the giant Clydesdale-"

"The _what?"_ Cass asked through the scarf.

"Alright, on the wild mustang quarter-horse-"

"Is that even possible?" Ginny asked. Blaise frowned jokingly.

"Fine, the race is a draw, with both horses having to be shot. Happy?"

"Professor Tyler!" Snape shouted, looking somewhat Less Than Pleased. "Who is riding you?"

"The famed jockey McPhersen," Blaise explained. "We found him in Hogsmeade."

"That is the strangest way I have _ever_ seen an American pick up guys!" Severus called, trying not to snort at the sight. "His parents are frantic!"

"Donaghan!" a redheaded lady cried, running out of the doorway. 

"Mum!"

"Where have you been?" Mrs. McPhersen asked.

"We found him in Hogsmeade," Cass explained. "Don't get him down just yet…he's in his socks."

"Thank y' so much, Miss-?"

"Professor Tyler is our American Muggle Studies department," Snape introduced. "Cassandra, this is Branwen McPhersen, your jockey's mother."

"Nice t'meet you," Cass offered a hand.

"Ah, but y're so good t' bring him back! Donaghan has a tendency to wander off, and he's also learned how to dial nine-hundred numbers at home."

"Nine-hundred…" Cass thought a second. "You have a telephone?"

"Oh, but o' course. M'husband and I 're Squibs," Branwen explained without a blush. "We were just having a word with Dumbledore about Donaghan's-"

A nearby bush burst into flower and sprouted berries. The mischievous child reached out and grabbed a few, eating them. "…Magical abilities." Branwen shrugged tiredly. "What am I t' do with y'?"

"May I suggest a leash?" Snape offered dryly, wiping berry juice and flower petals off his shoulders.

******************************************************************** 

"What exactly is in that box, pal?" Cass inquired of Hermione as they took their snowy things off in the Head Girl's chambers. 

"I don't know yet." Hermione cut the string that held the plain, unmarked box shut and opened it. What she saw within was indeed a surprise. "Oh, my."

"By Merlin's mighty balls themselves," Cass observed, looking a bit impressed. "Are you sure that's what you asked for?"

"I don't know if my definition of 'seductive' and Johnny's are _quite_ the same…I _suppose_."

"See if it fits."

"Why?"

"Because I am the only one of your female friends besides Ginny who will be honest and not laugh. I'll go get her while you change."

Hermione wasn't quite sure how to manage the hooks up the back, but the garters were easy enough after she read the directions. Finally she got everything done up and was about to present herself for inspection when she noticed the last item in the box –sneakers? She shrugged and tied them on, only to have them transform into six-inch stiletto heels with straps that snaked up her legs. They still felt like sneakers, though, and looked quite nice, so she decided that Johnny's heart was in the right place. 

"Here I come," she announced.

"No, don't-!"

But it was too late. All unwittingly, Hermione had stepped out and shown the most risqué getup of her career to Cass and Ginny –with Harry and Ron also in the room. The embroidered Slytherin snakes with diamonds for eyes were bad, but the stilettoes, garter belt and the riding crop in her hand were worse. 

"Wow, Hermione!" Harry actually smiled and seemed impressed. "You look great!"

Ron, however, had gone violently red and lost the ability to speak.

"You…wear…why?"

"I chose the outfits myself," Ginny announced. "Cass did the Transfiguration stuff. We're being dominatrixes from all four Houses for the prank." Cass looked questioningly at Ginny only to get the raised eyebrow of 'run with it.' "Come on, show them mine." Next thing anybody knew, Ginny was in a Gryffindor version of the same ensemble. The redhead pouted her lips and tapped Harry's shoulder with her riding crop. "So what do you think, Harry?" He looked as though he had suddenly swallowed his Firebolt.

"Am I late for-" Blaise had just appeared. "Ginny, you- _Hermione!"_

"Oh, I know you wanted Slytherin, but your hair is black. Cass, show the boys the other two outfits for the prank." While Ginny filled Blaise in with the Eyebrow, Cass transformed Blaise into Hufflepuff and herself into a slightly trampy Ravenclaw. 

"Cool!" Ron finally said something intelligible. "So, when is the prank?"

"Tonight," Blaise announced. "May we prepare now in privacy?"

Moments later, the catfight began.

"Ginny, how _could_ you?"

"How could _I?_ It was Blaise said we were doing it tonight!"

"Doing _what_ tonight?" Cass begged.

"You'd better pull something out of your Yankee bag of tricks, because here we are, dressed like the Four Whores of the Apocalypse with two expectant and likely quite randy Gryffie boys!" Blaise gasped to get her breath. "Gods, this is a tight corset."

"What'd you say?" Cass asked.

"This thing's tight."

"No about the four…" The American had a very weird look. "Oh, glory."

"What?"

"I'm inspired."

********************************************************************** 

There was unusually good food in the Great Hall that night.  Little Donaghan had been installed in a high chair at the Gryffindor table to give his mum and dad some peace, and Lavender and Parvati were having quite a good time giving him tidbits of new things to try. He was an obliging little chap, and had Fred and George been present it might not have been so cute. 

Ron and Harry waited, on the tips of their behinds, so to speak. They were burning with curiosity about what the girls had planned. Seamus had remarked on Hermione's absence disappointedly, as he had wanted to ask after some tutoring, and all the first-years seemed to be missing Cass at the Head Table. 

She had a habit of doing mischievous things to offend Professor Snape in front of them, only when he was being a real jackass, of course, but it was always fun. If she didn't brazenly swipe a crouton from his salad, she neatly separated every onion from what she was eating and deposited them on his plate. Considering Severus both hated croutons and found onions tasty, the pranks were well intentioned. John and he were missing her as well tonight. There was noone to eat their croutons or radishes.

Quite abruptly, Dobby strode into the Hall, clad in a tuxedo with rhinestone trim.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced in a shaky voice. "Dobby gives you…the Four…" He couldn't quite spit out the word. "…_Whores_…of the Apocalypse."

As the embarrassed elf ran for his life, a ticking beat began to fill the hall. Their stiletto heels clicking to that beat, four femmes fatale in black, lacy corsets with House-mascot embroidery and top hats entered, two down each aisle. They snapped their fingers and cracked riding crops, swinging their hips in a scandalous manner. 

As the beat became music, Slytherin, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff began to sing quietly:

_"Hey, sister, go, sister, soul, sister, flow, sister, go, sister…"_

They were all wearing black satin, rhinestone-rimmed masquerade masks under their top hats. Only their eyes and the lower halves of their faces were visible. Harry and Ron were properly astonished, more so as Ravenclaw took a verse of the song.

_"He met Marmalade down in old New Orleans  
Struttin' her stuff on the street  
She said 'hello, hey, Joe,  
'You wanna give it a go?'  
Creole Lady Marmalade…"_

Each girl sang a different verse, taking backup singing in turns and dancing scandalously. Occasionally they went so far as to touch a member of their captive audience, whether slyly or to smack away an over-friendly hand with a riding crop. Finally, as the song wound down, they all took scandalous poses in front of the Head Table.

"And _now,"_ Ravenclaw announced loudly. "Let's all be _sure_ to wish Dolores Umbridge a _very happy birthday!"_

There was never louder applause.

********************************************************************* 

"Really, it was just a thought," Cass explained as the girls walked back to Hermione's room to get all their 'costumes' off. "Mark my words, _somebody_ will pair that song with top hats and bustiers."

"Had you all forgotten there was a three-year-old in the room?" Professor Snape inquired. He had gone around from somewhere and they had almost run into him. "Miss Weasley, Miss Zabini, you may go and change. Professor Tyler…god help your husband. Her- Miss Granger, if you would please come with me?"

Trying her best to look either penitent or nervous, Hermione followed the billowing black robes, praying to every deity that was the other three didn't crack up behind her soon. As soon as she and Severus reached the Potions classroom, he closed and locked the door, placing a silencing spell in addition to the usual wards. 

"Severus?" she inquired meekly, unsure is he was angry or not. The name scarcely got past her lips before he kissed them. Moments passed before the kisses stopped. Severus looked like a man in the abject throes of desire –which he likely was.

"Darling, have you any idea how…tempting you are in that?" 

"Only as tempting as those black robes of yours tend to be," she replied enticingly. "Are they as dratted difficult to remove as this?"

"I don't know…feel like an experiment?"

************************************************************************** 


	41. Creative Pursuits

Chapter Forty-One: Creative Pursuits

"Dare I _ask_ what you are doing?" Severus frowned at the pink-and-blue monstrosity spread over Cass's lap. She had a needle in hand, another three impaled through the sleeve of her t-shirt, a spool of thread on the adjacent table, and a seam-ripper over her ear like a pencil. 

"It should be perfectly obvious what I am doing. I am quilting this blanket."

"And which Ministry official is it intended to offend?" Severus continued. "Are you aware that right now the colors are somewhat hideous?"

"Pink and blue are proper colors for a baby."

"A color-blind baby?" Something occurred to the dour man. "Oh…are you…?"

"It's for Jen," Cass explained, licking her finger where she had just poked it. "Maria's little girl."

"Ah."

"I figure, just because the poor kid has a lousy start in life, doesn't mean she can't have an insane fairy godmother."

"Who makes her pink-and-blue quilts?"

"Sevvy, they haven't even given her a teddy bear. The boy baby has all the stuff a kid could want, but little Jen's just being ignored by the present-givers."

"Present-givers?"

"You know, relatives and such. And babies _need_ blankies, otherwise they don't grow properly."

"They don't?"

"No. And they have to have a blankie with silky on the edges." Taking Severus' hand, Cass showed him the taffeta border. "They fall asleep petting it."

"I don't think_ I _had a blanket with that on the edges."

"And look how you turned out."

By then, others had begun to arrive for the staff meeting. Professors Sprout and Hooch admired the blanket and pulled their chairs closer to Cass' so that they might help. By the time Dumbledore and Professor Lupin appeared, almost every female member of the staff had joined in the improptu quilting bee. Professor Trelawney had gone to get her favorite pincushion first.

"I daresay, what brought this on?" Albus inquired. 

"It looks like the ladies are getting maternal on us," Lupin agreed. "I wonder which-?"

"It's for Maria Catesby's daughter," Severus explained, frowning. "Cassandra started it."

"It's a pretty quilt," Lupin agreed, "but why is it so big?"

"It was smaller, but they've just added more so they can all work on it at once." Snape did not seem pleased. "I assume today's will be an Amish staff-meeting."

"Well, we can't very well let them outdo us, can we?" Flitwick inquired. "I'll get my knitting needles."

_"What?"_

"Booties, Severus. Rather like babies' socks," Albus explained. "They're very cute and Filius can teach us all to knit while the ladies sew."

Severus stepped calmly over to the little quilters' circle and addressed Cass:

"Sometimes I don't like you."

Some minutes later, when everyone was either sewing or knitting, Dumbledore addressed the staff:

"I have only one matter of business for you today. As you know, this evening is the Yule Ball, and this year's festivities are to be somewhat more opulent and joyous than in previous years."

"As a personal insult to Moldy-Voldy," Cass added.

"Precisely. There is no better resistance to terror than showing how little it frightens you. Not to be foolhardy, but to continue enjoying festive occasions is the cruelest of all to would-be conquerors."

"And these kids need a party," Remus chipped in. "One night off from the endless fears and tensions of the war effort will do them good."

"Not to mention they've been kinda good lately," Tonks observed. "Noone's turned a single first-year into a newt all month."

"So I can count on you all to chaperone?" Albus asked with a smile. "And yes, Severus, you have to."

"I could say something genuinely mean right now."

"And then I could make a crack about your attitude," Professor McGonagall pointed out.

"Why give her the chance, Sevvy?" Madam Hooch asked.

_"Will you all cease calling me 'Sevvy'?"_

"Cassandra gets away with it," Flitwick reminded.

"She's my…she doesn't count!"

_"Oh…"_ Trelawney pointed a finger at Severus. "I See that you are concealing something about our Professor Tyler and yourself!"

"Stow it, Sibs," Cass retorted.

"But the facts are somewhat intriguing," Madam Hooch pointed out. "The same dark hair, sharp wit, House, tendency to turn a bit too horizontally on a broom…cousins, perhaps?"

"It's quite simple," John Tyler suddenly spoke up. "Cassie has very little surviving family, as does Severus, but they are, _very_ distantly, related. So they're just doing the honorary-sibling thing."

There was a long silence. 

"Well. That would explain the design of that costume you wore last night, Cassandra," Remus observed. "Black and all."

"You knew that was…what can you possibly mean?" Cass tried to look innocent.

"Cassandra, dear, we all know your singing voice," Professor Sinistra said gently. "You were Ravenclaw, weren't you?"

"I'm curious as to who was Gryffindor," Flitwick remarked. "She had great legs."

"And Hufflepuff was _quite_ a dancer," Lupin added. "Were they students or friends of yours?"

"Erm…friends." It wasn't quite a lie. Cass was trying not to strangle on what Ginny would think of Flitwick's compliment.

"The Orb showed that the Slytherin dancer and Professor Snape spent quite an amount of time in the Potions room afterward," Trelawney announced. Cass immediately sprang into action.

"What utter rubbish. Was that the Orb, or _you_ slinking around _looking_ for Severus?" Trelawney's voice grew harder.

"The Sight does not lie." 

"I think that your Inner Eye needs drops."

"What an utterly pedantic and unreceptive mind. The _skeptic_ can only fear the future."

"The _incompetent_ can only exploit the superstitious."

"You miserable little wolf!"

"Pathetic dragonfly!"

"Hedonist!"

"Charlatan!"

"Reckless fool!"

"Senseless quack!"

_"THE CLOUDS GATHER FOR THE STORM,"_ John announced suddenly, in a voice not his own. Both Trelawney and Tyler were silenced. _"THE SCIONS MEET THE SIRE AND RECEIVE WARNING. BEFORE THE RAINS HAVE GONE, ONE OF THE ORDER WILL DISAPPEAR."_

"Holy shit," Cass observed. John shook his head hard as if his ears had gotten wet.

"Now _that's_ prophecy," Lupin observed admiringly.

"Pardon?" John looked confusedly at the other professors, oblivious as to what had just happened.

"You did it again, darling," Cass explained lightly.

"Oh." The werewolf looked faintly disappointed to have missed it. "What'd I say now?"

"The usual weather forecast. Oh, and someone will disappear."

"How depressing." John sighed. "Don't I ever do happy ones?" Trelawney looked quite startled, even bested, by all of this. 

"You are a Seer?"

"Yep."

"He has been for years," Cass said in a jaded tone. "And he doesn't need costume jewelry, either."

"How long has this been occurring?" Dumbledore asked seriously.

"Since I was a kid," John shrugged. "No big deal."

"So much for skeptic werewolves, eh, Sibyll?" Severus remarked. "Takes the real thing to impress Tyler."

******************************************************************** 

"Is that a fertility goddess?" Snape asked.

"It's Peter Rabbit, you nit." Hermione adjusted the bow around the stuffed creature's neck.

"Who?"

"The bunny in Beatrix Potter's books. You remember them?"

"Why is he wearing a jacket?" Hermione sighed.

"Because he does, Severus."

"Well, you can't blame me for being mistaken…I mean, rabbits and fertility…"

"What would _I_ be doing with a fertility goddess?"

"I don't know. It just seemed logical…"

"A fertility goddess? In here?"

"Well, a stuffed literary character doesn't make better sense!"

"It's a present-"

"For Maria's baby?"

"However did you guess?" 

"Everyone's making or buying baby things for her. The Blodgetts are so partial to the boy that they don't care about the girl, so Hogwarts seems to be making up for it."

"In a massive fairy-godmother campaign, spearheaded by our own mad Yank?"

"However did _you_ guess?"

"I had a neighbor who couldn't have children. She just played aunt to everyone else's."

"Instead of keeping many cats?"

"She did that, too."

Severus sighed thoughtfully.

"Would you like one?"

"I have one."

_"What?"_

"You've met Crookshanks…"

"Oh, Merlin…I meant a child." Severus swallowed hard. "You had me worried."

"Really…" Hermione considered this a moment. "Surely not now?"

"Well, no…but later, maybe?"

"Like how much later?" Severus gestured absently.

"Oh…when we've been married a couple of years."

"I suppose that could be –_what was that?"_

"I'm asking."

"What?"

"I'm asking. Don't make me say it out loud." Severus pulled a small box out of his robe pocket and opened it. "After you've graduated, you think?"

"I…" This had genuinely startled Hermione. "What brought this on?"

"Well…" Severus stood up and began to walk around the room. "I thought about how much I like talking with you, just as a friend, and how nice it is to have you nearby. Then I thought about the fact that I love you …you did know I do?" Hermione's eyes just stayed wide. "And it occurred to me, I don't like being alive without you around. So I'm asking, will you be around always? You don't have to answer now, but I did want you to know how I felt."

It was like a peculiar dream. Severus had clearly rehearsed what he was going to say and then promptly forgotten all of it. Hermione got up and went to him, taking his hands in hers.

"I can't make any promises that we'll be the same by then…but barring anything untoward, then I suppose I agree with this idea of yours."

"Nothing could make me stop loving you."

"Getting killed?" Hermione looked away and Severus brought her chin back up with a gentle hand. 

"You'll keep me from dying even if I do."

******************************************************************** 

Blaise had noticed something odd. She had abruptly and quite cleanly ceased to fancy Ron Weasley. 

It was most likely her visits to the Burrow that had done it. Once you know what a guy's room looks like, it's hard to maintain a crush. Instead, she had begun looking forward more and more to Professor Lupin and Professor Tonks' classes, and not just because they beat hell out of Professor Binns'.  

Professor Lupin was clearly a case of the Crush That Just Will Not Die; given that she had first noticed men as a gender were dishy in his third-year Defense classes. The little graying places in his hair made him look distinguished in spite of his ragamuffin clothes, and his soft calmness was a welcome change from the teenage guys she dated. He also had the whole werewolf thing going for him –if Professor Cass married one, they must be beyond memorable in bed. 

Professor Tonks, on the other hand, seemed like the punk-rock antithesis to dear, calm Lupin. Her hair changed with her mood, as did pretty much the rest of her, and her taste in things like music and clothes was just plain cool. With her 'purebloody-pole-up-arse' upbringing, Blaise longed for wild things. One could not be more wild than an Auror-turned-professor who could change their looks at will, often choosing the most outrageous imaginable. Blaise wondered exactly how creative she was.

Gods, teenage hormones were abominable sometimes! She'd be fancying Trelawney and Flitwick next!

************************************************************* 


	42. Dancing

Chapter Forty-Two: Dancing

For the first time in recalled history, first, second and third-years, as well as the students' parents, were invited to the Yule Ball. Since a good many first-year boys were unused to dressing up, John Tyler had borrowed his wife's classroom for an impromptu lesson in haberdashery. He had not estimated the turnout would be the entire class.

"Okay…" he began, looking at the slew of eleven-year-olds. "You don't want your tie to choke you to death. You'll die."

"Sir, my robes don't have a tie."  
"Oh. Good. You're safe, then."

"How do I tie this one, sir?" One unfortunate boy had a bow tie. John went ashen.

"Err…you don't. It's …bad luck."

"But sir, do I just leave it?"

"No, you ask a girl. They all know how. It's quite irritating."

"Professor Tyler?" Ginny Weasley had appeared at the door. Every little boy went scarlet and several tried to cover boxers and bare legs. "Don't worry, guys," she remarked with an airy gesture. "I have six brothers. Professor, Cass said you might need some help?"

"Yes," John looked quite relieved. "There's a bow tie."

"Oh." With an air of calm superiority, Ginny stepped over to the first year and deftly tied the offending bit of satin. A lost-looking little fellow with his sleeves undone came up to her next, a set of cufflinks in his hand. "These are like buttons. See?" The next boy had suspenders that were too long. Ginny moved the slide adjusts and had them fitting in seconds. One unfortunate little fellow's robes were simply too big. "Oh, _dear_." His hands and feet were hidden entirely.

"They're my brother's," the little Hufflepuff explained, tears starting in his eyes. Ginny shrugged, waved her wand, and fixed everything. The little boy looked as though his smile might let the top of his head fall off. "Thank you, Miss Weasley!"

"No problem."

"So we _can_ use wands?" John asked.

"Why not?" Ginny smiled.

"Oh. Okay." 

A few charms later, the entire class of first-years was resplendent in their dress robes, some of which had been entirely retailored to suit better. Ginny was impressed.

"Well, that worked nicely," she observed. "You look great, all of you."

"Where is Cassie?" John asked quietly. Ginny grinned.

"Being attacked by Lavender and Parvati, most likely. Have you seen her outfit?"

"No."

"Oh, you poor, poor werewolf." The sixth-year patted her professor's shoulder. "I'd better go get ready."

As Ginny left, the first-year boys applauded.

********************************************************** 

"Well?" 

"They're all dressed, and noone's tie strangled them." Ginny had to restrain a smirk as Cass was struggling with her dress-up clothes.

"That's good. John can't tie a bow tie to save his life."

"Why not?"

"He has three brothers. None of them would _let_ the others wear such a thing."

"He looks awfully good, you know."

"Which robes is he wearing?'

"They're burgundy, with a gold sash and shiny embroidery."

"How very House-conscious," Cass observed. Considering her ensemble was the most Slytherin thing imaginable, it was a sarcastic comment. "At least burgundy looks fairly good on him."

"I think it's intentional," Hermione remarked, struggling with her pantyhose. "When you two dance together, it'll sort of shoot the House rivalries in the foot."

"You're one to talk." Cass grinned. "Did you hear about the new prefects rule?"

"Which?"

"Prefects have to dance with at least one teacher. Hallo, Head Girl."

"Who decided that?" Lavender inquired. "She might have to dance with…I d'know, Snape or somebody!"

"Beats the sod out of Professor Binns, in my opinion," Cass smirkingly ate a pretzel. "Why are you lot so down on ol' Sevvy?"

"He's a greasy git rat bastard with the temper of a tarantula and the social graces of a dead manticore." Blaise also picked up a pretzel. "No wonder he's my favorite relative."

"Hey!" Cass gave the Slytherin a look and swiped back the pretzel bowl. "He's not so bad when he's not stuck teaching." 

"If he could just _get laid,"_ Parvati observed. "Maybe that'd help."

Cass artfully distracted the others from Hermione's blushing face by choking on a pretzel. A punch in the gut from Ginny later, she was cured.

"Gaw, evil pretzels." Cass passed the bowl to the highchair's tray. "You eat them, Donaghan."

"Okay!"

"Explain to me again, why's the kid here?" Blaise gestured to the little Scot. 

"It's fun to babysit," Lavender protested.

"And dressing in front of a guy is fun," Cass added. "Just with Donnie, we don't have to follow up on it."

"Well, he's scarfing up all the pretzels." Donaghan picked up a pretzel and offered it to Blaise. Since she was in the process of buckling a shoe, she opened her mouth, whereupon the little boy deposited the pretzel between her teeth. "Thank you."

"We have enough pretzels to build a new Astronomy Tower," Ginny held up a fat bag. "Why did you buy so many, Blaise?"

"I like pretzels."

"She got the Muggle units of measurement just a little off," Hermione explained. "Thank goodness _I _bought the chocolate."

"Hey, confusing pounds and ounces is not bad when you buy chocolate," Cass happily took a piece from the little heap that was decorating the tea tray. "Seventeen pounds of chocolate and pretzels…we could make chocolate-covered ones."

"We could have chocolate fondue," Blaise suggested.

"After the Ball?"

"Why not now?" Ginny went and fetched her cauldron from potions class. "I'll have Dobby bring up some strawberries and bananas and such."

"Marshmallows!" Cass pleaded.

"I've got toothpicks!"

As Blaise and Ginny eagerly melted the chocolate, noone thought to rinse out the cauldron first.

**************************************************************** 

"I think this is a bad idea." Ron tugged at his sleeves. "Why should I?"

"Because, Ron, I think she needs a nice guy to ask her to dance."

"Draco's…I can't believe I'm saying this." 

"It's not like she's…well, _most_ people wouldn't mind."

Ron looked at Harry, a sheepishly apologetic smile on his face. 

"I don't mind her looks."

"Then why are you being such a scared cat about it?" Harry adjusted his tie in the mirror. "It's just a dance or two."

"But she's…she's Blaise Zabini, y'know?" Harry looked at his friend, who did seem rather apprehensive. "She's the Slytherin Queen, the Serpent's Den femme fatale." Harry couldn't resist.

"A _scarlet woman?"_

"Harry, I'd just as soon not wind up with a crush on her." Ron sounded desperate.

"Who says you will?"

"Everyone who's seen her up close in dress robes does!"

"I never did," Draco observed, coming in with a small box. "Got our boutonnieres."

"Our what?"

"Button-flowers," Ron explained.

"Oh."

"They arrived by owl. I'm betting Professor Cass or my mum sent them." 

"Why would your mum-?"

"She thinks you lot beat the sod out of Crabbe and Goyle," Malfoy explained. Harry picked up one of the tiny arrangements and sniffed it.

"I think your mum must've sent them."

"Why not Professor Cass?" Ron asked.

"Too strong a smell," Harry explained. "Werewolves' noses are really sensitive." Having stayed with Remus Lupin, Harry knew what he was talking about. "That, and they're just not the sort of thing Professor Cass would send."

"Not even," Draco agreed. "Have you guys seen the girls' new robes?"

"No, why?"

"Well, I took the box of wrist corsages over to the Gryffindor girls' room, and-"

"How'd you get in?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Secret passage, behind the picture of the water nymph on the fourth floor."

"Cool!"

"What did they look like?" Ron pressed.

"Weasley, let's put it this way. There are little heaps of dead Gryffie boys piled at your sister's feet." Draco grinned. "Potter, you are one lucky Seeker. Your Hermione's done her butterfly-out-of-bookworm trick again, and the fashion plates just look like their usual selves in robes."

"How about Blaise?" Ron asked.

"Oh, Blaise…she looks good." Draco shrugged. 

_"How good?"_ Ron was beginning to look desperate.

"What, scared she'll do the part-veela thing to you?"

"She's part-veela?"

"Only about a twelfth, but sometimes she can have that effect." Draco looked at Ron in astonishment. "Why? Fancy her or something?"

"I suggested he dance with her once or twice," Harry explained. "So much for Gryffindor being the bravest House." Draco shook his head.

"No, Potter, his fears are well-founded." Ron looked even more nervous and Draco sighed. "Here's the trick, Weasley. You just have to keep in mind that under the fabulous outfit, the great figure, the gorgeous hair, all of it-"

Ron looked sick.

"-there's a bit of a ditz who likes to dance about the room naked to disco music when noone else's around."

"Okay, that mental image was _not_ helpful…" 

"Look, Ron, why are you so worried?" Harry asked. "If you like a girl, you like her."

"Yeah," Draco agreed. "And it's _Blaise_."

"You lot see Blaise Zabini as this friendly tomboy with a Muggle music fixation. I see her as the English answer to Fleur Delacour."

_"And?"_ Harry smiled.

"Look what _she_ did to Bill, and then Roger Davies."

"I thought she was Bill's friend at Gringotts and he helped get them together," Harry observed.

"Well, yeah, but she's all hypnotizy and…" Ron gestured incoherently. "Look, I'll dance with her, but if I'm a lovesick git like Flint was within a week…"

"Flint wasn't lovesick," Malfoy explained coldly. "He treated her like chattel."

"But look how possessive he got."

"Same way he treats a broom. That was _his_ problem, not Blaise's." Draco had a dark look on his face. "Listen, Weasley, I've spent a lot of my time here hating your very guts. Blaise is like my sister, and she needs a nice guy to watch out for her at the ball tonight. Just to keep her from getting snarled up in a case like that again. You're the one I'd pick." The blond boy smiled slightly and continued. "Besides, if she's seen with you, her family'll have kittens. Blaise loves doing that kind of thing."

********************************************************** 

"I hate my life."

"Severus, stop."

"My very existence is a riotous haze of woe."

"It's a tie, not a noose."

"Might as well be."

"Look, just because you have to go to a Ball-"

"And entertain the grim thought of living another day-"

"And dance with at least one student-"

"The worthless hours passing like –I get to _what?"_

"Dance with one student. Albus' orders," Lupin explained before looking at his coworker's face and going pale. "Good god, man!"

"What?"

"You're smiling!"

"Oh, dear. Call a priest," John said dryly. "Severus got possessed again."

"And _you're_ joking with us?" Remus looked at the werewolf and the Slytherin back and forth. "First he smiles and then you speak? Who's going to die tonight?"

"I don't know," John replied thoughtfully. "Hope its noone nice."

********************************************************* 

The music filling the Great Hall was a mixture of Muggle and wizard, British and American, wild and demure. Some of the parents were confused by a few selections, but by the second rock an' roll number, Arthur and Molly Weasley were dancing like students. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy arrived during a faintly forboding orchestral song, entering ironically from the front just as John, Remus and Severus appeared by the left door of the rear. At the right, a few moments later, Cass, Blaise and Hermione entered, seemingly engrossed in conversation. The song ended with an abrupt scrape of strings, leaving a total and abject silence as the gathered onlookers watched.

The rumor mill, especially in Slytherin, had loosely hinted at the vendetta between Lucius Malfoy and Cass Tyler, until most of the student body simply considered them hereditary enemies. (When questioned about his seeming civility with the werewolf by his housemates, Draco had been smiling arrogantly and saying something to the effect of 'Know your enemy.') Consequently, when these two entered the Hall within seconds of each other, everyone watched, some hoping for a fight. 

Rather than risk not only a fatal duel, but also the blowing of his own cover, Severus quickly sprang into action. He crossed the room and stiffly bowed to Hermione, who took his hand with an equally impassive expression as the next song began. Lupin, wishing to avoid a fight, did the same, a little more warmly, offering a hand to Blaise. John distracted Cass from Lucius' presence in the best way he knew how, which replaced the silence with a chorus of 'aww,' 'oooh!' and the perennial favorite 'Newlyweds, go figure.' It was quite an effective trick. Just about the only thing Lucius could do at that point was dance with Narcissa, and this he did with the same aristocratic coldness as the rest of his movements. 

At approximately the sixth measure of the song, something unfortunate happened. Since the thirteenth century, the court quadrille had been popular among wizards. It had evolved very little, being still a kind of slow, stately British square dance. With the four pairs present on the floor and the tempo of the present song, an inadvertent cross had formed. The laws of etiquette being what they were, the eight people had no choice.

"What's-?" Hermione whispered.

"Quadrille," Severus explained, almost silently. "To the left."

Hermione appropriately stepped to the left and found herself dancing with Professor Lupin. He very surreptitiously whispered the steps, and within a bar or two she had it down. To her chagrin, Cass and Blaise already knew this dance. Blaise being a pureblood, it was little surprise from her, but Cass…

"Dance classes," Lupin explained quietly without even being asked. "Americans love them."

"Won't she have to…?"

"After you do, yeah."

Hermione felt an icy fist grasp her intestines. Dancing with Lucius Malfoy herself was scary. Being in the room while Cass did, well…

"Miss Granger."

"Mr. Malfoy."

"Your holiday is passing well?"

"Quite, and yours?"

"Splendid," the blond man replied without expression. It was all very stiff and polite. As Hermione moved to John Tyler, she listened carefully. "Professor Tyler," Lucius greeted crisply.

"Mr. Malfoy." Cass' tone was equally icy.

"Very Slytherin ensemble."

"And yours, as well." Lucius was wearing black with green accents and silver embroidery.

"Was your Sorting a surprise?" Cass didn't flinch or bend in the slightest.

"Not really. Yours?"

"Never." The two parted, and Hermione realized she had barely breathed in the interim. 

"Are you alright?" Severus whispered.

"Terrified."

"Narcissa warned me -he knows." Hermione felt a chill.

"That she works for-?"

"No." Severus inclined his head slightly and Hermione saw something. Even as Lucius danced with Narcissa, he was carefully watching every step Cass took, a strange look in his eyes escaping his usual control.

Whether it was hatred, fascination or fear, Hermione didn't quite want to know.

******************************************************** 


	43. Some Small Madness

Chapter Forty-Three: Some Small Madness

"Why, Ms. Umbridge!" Dumbledore greeted. "How are you this fine evening?"

"Oh, I am very well indeed," the toadly woman simpered. She had the air of Pansy Parkinson about to rat on someone. "And yourself?"

"I have discovered that plum pudding is my favorite after all." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "It's taken quite awhile to decide."

"Well…erm…I suppose that's good news," Dolores fumbled before brightening her beady little eyes. "I have some very disturbing letters here." She held up two pieces of parchment, one of which was a mere drawing, and one of which was an elegantly written epistle. "_More_ Aurors from America, Albus? Without Ministry approval? Tsk, tsk." Her simpering, triumphant little smile was really quite nauseating to behold. She handed Dumbledore the letters, which he looked over with a growing smile. When he saw the drawing, the smile turned into a joyous belly laugh.

"Dolores, my dear, I can't see how the Ministry would object to some professors' relatives coming for Christmas." 

_"What?"_ Umbridge just about swallowed her uvula. "That is an American Aurory document, authorizing three agents to operate from Hogwarts!"

"Precisely." Albus smiled. "They promised to make some of their famous pancakes for breakfast tomorrow."

"This is absolutely-!"

A sudden sound silenced the bureaucrat, and indeed, much of the room. Very calmly, Professor Lupin opened the front door of the Hall, as if the knocking were some late guest.

It was.

"Why…Happy Christmas!" the surprised professor greeted. Ronan and the other two centaurs nodded, their hooves clicking on the stone floor.

"It is an especially fine night for revelry," Ronan agreed. 

Umbridge had gone a very becoming shade of ivory. 

"Headmaster Dumbledore?" the smallest centaur inquired, clip-clopping across the floor. He had something green in his hands. "In celebration of your human holiday."

"Thank you, Bern." Albus accepted the potted holly plant. "Professor Sprout will be very pleased. And for you." The bearded man motioned to a sixth-year prefect, who brought an elegant spyglass, of wood with brass finishings, and offered it with a bow to the centaur. "In celebration of the season's brightening of Andromeda."

"Thank you, Dumbledore."

"To what do we owe our …guests' presence?" Lucius Malfoy inquired, calmly for him. It was fairly clear that he had not been pleasantly surprised.

"I invited them." A few rows of students parted and Cass Tyler stepped forward. It would have been perfectly seeming to give Malfoy an imperious look, but she didn't, instead facing the young centaur and curtsying. "Bern, son of Ronan."

"Cassandra, daughter of Antigone." Bern bowed.

What passed between the young centaur and the werewolf seemed to be some kind of ritual. One raised a hand, as did the other, and solemnly, each of them cracked the knuckles of that hand finger by finger, keeping the other hand firmly at their side. During these five simultaneous snapping sounds, each of them stared deeply into the other's eyes. The process was then repeated with the other hand, before Bern let out a joyous whinny and Cass a howl. It should be remarked that Umbridge disappeared upon hearing said whinny.

There was a silence after this remarkable performance. Finally, Ronan cleared his throat.

"It grows warm within this human hall. May your holiday pass pleasantly under the brilliant stars."

"And may your winter sky be clear," Cass replied, curtsying again.

With some soft clipping and clopping, the centaurs left. The students, gathered in little knots, began to talk again, but silence still reigned over the space near the high table.

"You invited the centaurs?" Lucius Malfoy asked quietly of Cass and Dumbledore.

"I did." Cass gave him a slightly bold look, as if she expected him not to believe her.

"And they came?" Malfoy's voice was expressionless.

"Our Professor Tyler is very skilled as a diplomat," Dumbledore explained, his eyes for once not twinkling. Lucius smiled tightly, a somewhat sarcastic expression.

"Is she?" There wasn't _quite_ a note of mocking in his voice, but one almost heard it anyway. "Such an adept…even knowing the centaur hail."

"One learns such things when one is accepted into a centaur tribe." Cass wasn't _quite_ challenging Lucius, not in any way that could be proved, but like his mocking, it was there anyway. 

"A werewolf turned centaur?" Lucius' eyebrow was up.

"A werewolf is more welcome than a wizard." Cass' tone was increasingly icy. Lucius smirked.

"Clearly. To _beasts_ their own."

"Lucius!" Dumbledore actually showed ire, which caused several of the people who had been watching closely to jump. "One would _expect_-"

"No, no, Headmaster," Cass gave Dumbledore her best innocent, winning smile; the one Ginny had helped her to perfect. "Mr. Malfoy's remark is no insult. It rather explains why pureblood families interbreed."

At that point Narcissa intervened. 

"Pardon me, Headmaster, Professor," she airily remarked. "I want my husband for a dance."

"And my wife the same," John Tyler announced, taking Cass' hand in his. The two peacemakers spun their spouses away, having narrowly averted a titanic clash between holiday waltzes. Dumbledore sighed audibly and sought out his seat.

"Minerva, I need some more lemon drops."

************************************************************** 

"That was easily the scariest thing I have ever-" Neville shook his head. Ginny and Harry nodded. "I mean, they were just about to duel each other, weren't they?"

"I think so."

"No wonder she hates him, though," Ginny observed. "That bastard treats all Muggle-borns like shit, and she's a werewolf and a Yank to boot."

"Not to mention he's afraid of her," a calm voice added from behind them. Neville was surprised to see Draco. 

"Malfoy!"

"Yeah?"

"But…?"

"Didn't you tell him?" Draco gave Ginny a little frown, then turned back to Neville, offering a hand."Pax?"

"Er…yeah, pax…" Neville still looked a bit gobsmacked. 

"And I'm really, really sorry about Trevor. I didn't realize he was your pet when I…y'know." For a moment, both boys looked intensely uncomfortable. "Good lord, man, look like you've never seen a Slytherin." Draco checked over the Gryffindor's shoulder to make sure his father was occupied. "I'm on your side, now."

"Oh, _sure_." Neville had recovered himself and was beginning to go a bit sarcastic. "The son of a Death Eater's sympathetic to fighting You-Know-Who?"

"Actually, he is," Ginny pointed out. "Professor Cass converted him."

"Well, actually, it was more my dad making a colostomy bag of himself and my mum turning out to hate Moldy-Voldy, too…but yeah, she helped a bit."

Neville crossed his arms across his chest and frowned.

"Prove it." Draco sighed and rolled his eyes.

"How?"

"…I don't know." Neville was still frowning. "Do something a Death Eater'd never do."

"Besides wear boxers with little brooms on them?" Draco went scarlet and Ginny smirked. "Fly's down."

"He can't do much with his father here, Neville," Harry explained. 

"Yeah he can…" Neville pondered the possibilities. "Go up and say something nice to that little first-year!"

"Which?"

"The little one there, the Gryffindor." Draco grinned.

"I'll do you one better, mate."

And before the eyes of everyone who was paying attention, the Head Boy asked the little Gryffindor first-year girl to dance. Anyone who saw it thought that he was either doing it on a bet, being surprisingly nice on Dumbledore's orders, or plotting something. The Slytherin parents assumed he was doing it out of teenage rebellion to offend Lucius. Narcissa didn't really give a rat's ass. Lucius wasn't paying attention, and neither, it seemed, was Snape.

"How long can we do this?" he whispered surreptitiously to Hermione.

"I don't know."

"If anyone comes closer, pretend that we're arguing."

"About what?"

"I don't know."

"Terpsichora potion and whether it should be illegal?" Hermione suggested.

"That'll do. Where are they now?" 

"Cass is by the drinks."

"Alone?"

"No, she's talking to Ron and Blaise. Where's Malfoy?"

"Sitting with Crabbe Senior. He's watching Cassandra." 

It was really quite unnerving, the way the Death Eater watched the werewolf move about the party, chatting with her students. Several sets of students came to greet her, more in kind of a 'look who _I'm_ with' than anything else. Cass seemed for the most part her usual affable self, at least to most, but Hermione could tell that she was not. Being watched that closely was bound to make anyone feel a bit uncomfortable, but considering the watcher, Cass likely felt more like a goldfish about to be gobbled down by a cat. 

Quite suddenly, Lucius Malfoy stood. Severus moved in the direction he seemed to be going, but it was too late. Malfoy had asked Professor Trelawney to dance. With no other option, Severus asked Poppy Pomfrey. Next Malfoy moved to Professor McGonagall, who must have been rather missing her walking stick for an excuse, and then came Madam Hooch. Hermione relaxed a little, but Severus had been a teacher too long not to grow more worried. It was the perfect ploy. Lucius was simply dancing with every female teacher there, so that it would not seem in the slightest way obvious when he got to Cass. 

Narcissa, having the sense God gave a stump and more, began working through the male teachers similarly. Professor Lupin and she looked rather nice together, as did she and Professor Vector, but Flitwick didn't really do much besides flatter the fact that the blond woman was _rather_ tall. Hagrid completely ruined the illusion during the next song, making poor Narcissa look almost ridiculously short, but she was game enough to have chosen a fairly boisterous swing number. The twirls and lifts involved in their wild choreography brought applause from the students. Hermione, watching with the air of someone seeing a tiny car full of thirty clowns have a wreck, frowned.

"Didn't know Hagrid could dance like that, did you?" a familiar voice asked. Cass was at Hermione's elbow, a metal flask in her hand. 

"Let me guess, you taught him?" Hermione frowned at the liquor in her friend's hand.

"Nope. John and Remus did." Cass took another belt from the flask, then, noticing Hermione looking at it, offered it to her. "Scotch?"

"You aren't supposed to be drinking!" Hermione snatched the contraband object from Cass and quickly hid it by lowering her hand. "Especially not here! What if someone saw you?"

"Constant vigilance?" Cass grinned haplessly. "I say I've took a leaf out of Moody's book?"

"Jesus, per'fessor," Blaise remarked, appearing with a little can. "Have one of these, and fast. If that miserable bleach-blond jagoff wants to dance with you next, you can't smell like a brewery."

"How'd you know she was-?" Hermione asked.

"Who do you think _gave_ her the Scotch?" Blaise asked. 

_"Blaise!"_

"Hermione!" Blaise retorted, acting as if she were following some rule. "When a professor looks like she's going to have a duel, you give her some stiffener to calm her down."

"When has alcohol _ever_ made her calm?"

"When did my students decide I was deaf?" Cass mumbled, gnawing on two Altoids at once. 

"Blaise, if there's bloodshed tonight and I have to clean up dead werewolf parts," Hermione threatened.

"I think dead Malfoy parts are more likely," Blaise observed. "Ten Galleons says she guts him like an eel."

"I d'want to gut _anyone_." Cass frowned. "Look, just because some sumbitch purebloody pole-up-arse decided to show up and spend the evening dancing like Fred Astaire with dropsy-"

"Doesn't mean she'll ruin her new dress to kick his ass." Tonks grinned, appearing from behind them. "Tyler, gel, he's running out of feminine pedagogues. Shall I go ahead of you and step on his foot?"

"Naw," Cass decided bravely, sounding rather like she was next in line for an anaesthetic-free root canal. "I can handle this." As their professor moved off and got into conversation with Flitwick, Hermione and Blaise frowned. Tonks' hair shifted colors slightly, but they hardly noticed.

"Why do I think we should send for backup?" Hermione asked. "Do we even _have_ backup?" Tonks sighed.

"I already sent for it. Ruddy late."

**************************************************************** 

Voldemort's plan had grown infinitely subtler in the passing months. Lucius Malfoy was too suspect, so a stunthad been arranged to demonstrate his supposed loyalty to the Ministry. It involved the most loyal Death Eater of them all, who, ironically, was also the most expendable. 

Since the venue had been chosen as Hogwarts School, Severus had not been told. It would add to his realistic expression of surprise, and it would stop any 'precautions' from making it look too convenient. Even Pettigrew had vouched for the fact that Severus didn't like students –at least not Slytherins, getting hurt. If every Slytherin left the Ball early or was otherwise conveniently out of the way, someone could pick up on it and suspect.

There was only one problem in the setup. The most loyal, most kamikaze Death Eater of them all…had misunderstood the orders. Direly.

****************************************************************


	44. Hate, Lust, and Electric Guitars

_Warning: this chapter contains dirty language, weird metaphors, and such an erotic undertone in places that it's nearly funny. I don't suggest reading it to your grandmother, unless she's in a band._

Chapter Forty-Four: Hate, Lust and Electric Guitars

Quite abruptly, Blaise Zabini left the hall. Dennis Creevey had been keeping an eye on her all night, more because her dress was very surprising than anything else. (As was the figure in it.) He liked the way she had done her hair, too, and it was such a shock to see her dressed formally that he was thinking of taking her picture for the yearbook. Perhaps placing the elegantly embroidered dress picture next to one taken in her usual school robes with the sleeves rolled up would make for a nice contrasts page. 

Alright, he had a little crush. It wasn't as if his elder brother hadn't developed a fascination with Professor Tonks that bordered on the absurd. Dennis was fond of her, especially since she showed interest in Muggle things, music especially, and as a Muggle-born he found she liked to ask him questions. She was also kind of pretty. A little too angular to be a robes model, perhaps, but she was very nice about posing for yearbook pictures. 

Actually, Dennis had been rather abusing his yearbook privileges lately. He had taken picture after picture, roll after roll of film tonight, intending to use the best prints for the yearbook and the others for a kind of Yule Ball retrospective, perhaps enlarged on glossy Kodak instead of the wizard brand Chromaparche, and with tasteful comments and names of the subjects in calligraphy below each photo. Lavishly done spreads and pictorials were Dennis' forte, as opposed to the more weekly-magazine style of his brother's work. It was his dream to work for a respected, great publication, like _Vanity Fair_, _Vogue_ or _Wandwood's_, while Colin had already gotten quite a few summer assignments for _Witch Weekly_ and one exceedingly well-paid cover shot for the _Quibbler_. Getting the hippogriff to smirk that way with the nun had been a particularly witty touch.

He had just about decided on dark green as the color of the retrospective's cover when the Slytherin disappeared. How beastly, and right when he had decided which lens would do the best justice to her eyes, too. Dennis wasn't about to use his last roll of vintage 1953 Kodachrome on someone else, so he quietly left the hall to follow his professor. 

An interesting sight met his eyes when he found Blaise. She was waiting in line for the powder room and had been immediately surrounded by inquisitive mother-types.

"Tell me, really, what good is it for you children to learn about Muggles?" a whiny, ferret-nosed lady was inquiring. She reminded Dennis quite strongly of Pansy Parkinson, likely indicating that she was her mother. "Aren't they just slower, stupider versions of wizards, without magic?"

"Not slower _or_ stupider," Blaise replied calmly. "I would _pay_ to see a wizard visit the moon or launch a camera to Mars."

"But they aren't going to be _living_ with you children, now, are they?" another mother persisted. "It's like learning about apes."

"Oh, I doubt that." The icy disdain in the girl's voice was really quite impressive. If Dennis had seen the practice sessions with Professor Snape to perfect it, he would have laughed. "Muggles are becoming more aware of magic every day, and even if they weren't, they are valuable contributors to society."

"Oh, honestly, what have Muggles ever contributed?"

"The wheel, for one thing, dear lady, as well as parchment, the quill, fire, written language, mathematics, chronology, art, music-"

"Music?" Mrs. Parkinson grew shrill. "Muggle music is…it's tripe, that's what it is. Not even worth listening to!"

A fiendish look got into the Slytherin's eye, and a crooked smile wandered across her face.

"You, Mrs. Parkinson, are _deprived_," she announced. "Do you mean to tell me that you have never heard the primal beat of drums, thundering hard and fast to a tempo no human heart can achieve? The thrilling notes of electric keyboards, synthesizers, guitars and violins, more power flowing through them than could light a city?" Her voice began to hum with passion as she asked further: "Never heard the erotic _scream_ of a note being wrung from an E string as taut as the aroused nerves of a randy teenager on a hot winter night? The thumping, pounding beat and melody produced by hard bass strings under the calloused fingertips of a master, _seducing_ tone from wound steel and bronze? The _force_ of an entire band coming through on a Marshall stack bigger than a small house, with the keyboard ostinato like the twinkle of stars, the bassline like the _thrust_ of a lover's hips, the beat like a heart pumping _all_ of the blood at once; the melody like a mischievous tongue of _fire_ _coursing_ over the most sensitive areas of the body, the mind and the _very_ _soul?_ Not to mention the lyrics speaking legend, _lust_ and poetry in a voice like a nymphomaniacal veela in heat? Fiery licks of music _flowing_ forth from speakers to shake the ground and the earth itself? So wildly _hot_ that at the end of a song you can scarcely tell whether you've been dancing or fucking?" Blaise looked at the gasping, overcomeladies in abject pity. "You've _never_ heard rock an' roll?"

Wide-eyed, the mothers all stared at her. One lit a cigarette and gently touched Blaise's arm with an admiring smile.

"I want _you_ to disc jockey my next party."

Dennis snapped the picture without a flash. It was too priceless.

******************************************************************** 

Cass and Lucius were actually managing to get along without major insults, surprisingly. After a brief, all-too-polite go about the floor, a cruel twist of fate and place cards had put them next to each other for the feast, with John at Cass' right and Narcissa at Lucius' left. The unfortunate onlookers who knew which end was up had the distinct impresssion that at any second Narcissa and John would be pulling the adversaries apart, and really, they weren't too far off. The only strange thing was that the tactics had changed. The two Slytherins had, in true House fashion, began trying very calmly to outdo each other in extremes of character while maintaining the charade of good relations.

"Where did you attend school, Professor Tyler?"

"I went to Morrison Academy and then to Corey Institute for my pre-Aurory training."

"Ah. Corey is in Massachusetts, is it not?"

"Yes, near Boston. The accents there are unbelievable –sounds like everyone has lock-jaw." Cass delicately sipped her wine. "Have you been to America?"

"Yes, twice," Lucius deftly cut his asparagus and ate a small piece of the brushy-looking end. "Once to Philadelphia and once to Washington."

"Washington state or the capital?" John inquired.

"Pardon?"

"Washington D.C. is a city…national capital. We also have a state called that," Cass explained.

"Ah. I trust it was the city, then. I attended for the 1976 Quidditch World Cup."

"The Americans hosted, for their bicentennial," Narcissa recalled. "Most of our class went over to see it. England versus Spain, if I recall rightly."

"Oh, yes!" Cass snapped her fingers. "A _bloodbath_. If you ask me, Denworth should have been MVP'd that year instead of old Bagman, except that he fouled like a little old lady."

"Completely," Lucius agreed. "I was ashamed to be British when he _apologized_ to Munoz for breaking his nose with the bat that time."

"And Munoz just looked at him like he had completely flipped his nut," Cass continued.

"Giving that wanker Bagman just enough time to catch the Snitch," Lucius added triumphantly. "You know, even if Denworth was a flying puf'ta, he had strategy."

"_Was_ he gay?" Cass asked, astonished.

"Oh, flaming," Narcissa smiled. "He and Wolfgang Andersson from Sweden have been living together since the early eighties."

"How splendidly romantic!" The young werewolf sighed. "It's so beastly that more gay couples can't come out and be congratulated instead of shunned. Miserable intolerant gits some people are."

There was a brief silence, during which Narcissa struggled not to laugh. She knew that of all Lucius' insecure biases, homophobia was the second biggest. Finally John made the effort to turn the conversational rudder toward more friendly waters.

"I've seen your son Draco play Quidditch," he announced. "Good form."

"Yes," Cass agreed. "He did a Wronski Feint last game against Ravenclaw, almost brought Madam Hooch to tears."

"Draco does seem to show promise at the game," Lucius admitted haltingly. "I do wish he devoted more effort to his studies, however."

"Well, he does try," Narcissa reminded. "And his quarter grades were all up from last year."

"I can give it to you straight, your Draco is working." Cass accio'd a can of Diet Coke from somewhere and began slugging that instead of the wine. "He turned in a portfolio project for my class that was a positive jewel of composition."

"Oh? What was the project on?" Lucius inquired.

"The students were each to choose a work of literature, write a report on it, and then gather research about the Internet-related fan culture." Cass smiled reminisciently. "Dear Draco wrote the entire paper in Elvish just to tick me off, and delivered the report to the class dressed as Legolas, ears and everything."

"Oh, I _do_ adore Tolkien!" Narcissa remarked extravagantly. "Did he have a bow?"

"Naturally, and a charming little sword. I think he borrowed it from one of the suits of armor." Cass's smile didn't wane, even as she told of some moderately horrible things. "I found arrows in two paintings after that, but I don't really think it was he who tried to off Sir Cadogan. Sometimes that mad old fool drives me mad as well."

"The crazy knight with the Don Quixote fixation?" Narcissa asked.

"The very same."

"Oh, why hasn't someone taken turpentine to that old fogy already?"

"Er…which of the Hogwarts portraits is your favorite, Professor?" Lucius asked.

"Good old Baron Andreas the Randy. We have the most splendid conversations in the left dungeon, and about the most fascinating things."

"I remember him," Lucius observed. "Very aptly named. Is your classroom in the dungeons?"

"My new one is," Cass explained. "I'm in the hallway to the right at the end of the one Sevvy's class is on. Near the kitchens."

"Oh, yes!" Narcissa brightened. "Draco wrote about the Muggle cuisine lessons. You must tell me, how are corn dogs made?"

As the two witches delved into a discussion of the edible, Lucius began to look even sicker than before. The way Narcissa and Cass got along, almost like old friends or females in an Oscar Wilde play seemed to give him indigestion, if not the profound urge to puke. John, being more tactful than most, addressed him behind the two females' heads.

"Have you tried the new Series II Bludgers?" he inquired.

"Not personally, but my son has a set for practice." Lucius smiled wanly. "They are a touch faster than the first Series."

"I was wondering if they were worth the investment," John observed. "I have a pretty good set of the old Granite Eighty-Fours; second-hand, of course, but very good trajectory from the bat. What position d'you play?"

"I? Oh, I was a Seeker for two seasons, then I turned Chaser." Astonishingly, talking of sports, Lucius seemed almost normal. "I had Ludo Bagman under me one year. Couldn't follow strategy worth a damn."

"That did seem like his worst failing, yes," John agreed. "Though one wonders, is that because he isn't exactly bright?"

"That's putting it kindly. Now, Severus Snape, he was a great player, even if he did dodge the limelight something ridiculous. Did you know he played every position in practice?"

"Really?" John managed to look fairly ticked at that. "And he won't even sign on for a teachers' game. Cassie's been trying to arrange for one since she saw Minerva McGonagall on a broom."

"Wants her on her side?"

"Peace, no. Thinks she can beat her, Cassie does." John cast an adoring glance at his wife, who was discussing recipes with Narcissa animatedly. "Mind you, she likely could. She was Seeker-Chaser too before she learned Beater at Corey."

"I didn't realize Quidditch was getting more popular in America."

"Well, it's nothing to Quodpot there, but Cassie and I were both into it, she especially. She Beat for the Stones the year they went to the Salem Cup."

"The Stones?"

"Oh, the team at Corey Institute. It's named after Giles Corey, you know, sort of in bad taste, but then, it's a Quidditch team…" John grinned. "She and your son fly sometimes, mostly when Severus thinks Draco needs more Bludgers thrown at his head than the usual."

"Well, someone's got to teach that boy how to take a hit," Lucius agreed. "Almost a disgrace to the family, that match against Hufflepuff last year."

"Oh, you should have heard Cassie swearing at poor Madam Hooch," John recalled with a mischievous smile. "She thought it was a hideous foul and threatened poor what's-his-name, the Beater, with more homework than Severus could give in a year. Ron and Hermione practically had to pull her back by the robes to stop her from taking a swipe at the kid herself."

"But it _was_ a perfectly ridiculous performance from Draco, falling off the broom that way."

"_I_ couldn't have hung on as long as he did. Fellow's got grit, bagging the Snitch with a busted hand, even if he did have to fall to manage it."

"At least they won the game."

"At least? Lucius, Draco's got Slytherin's name practically on the Cup already, and they're only three games in." The aristocrat flinched slightly from the werewolf using his given name, and suddenly it occurred to him what he had been saying.

"So…Draco and…your wife…spend time together?"

"Mostly with a lot of very impolite words bouncing between the two, but yes," John absently scratched his ear. "After all, they're both Slytherins."

Something very dodgy happened at that moment. Just as he said the word 'Slytherins,' John fixed Lucius in the eye with a stare that quite clearly meant 'relatives.' In his head, Lucius seemed to hear the werewolf's voice, speaking sternly despite the smile on his face:

"Leave her alone or I _will_ kill you."

In the words of Blaise Zabini, it was not a threat. It was a promise.

******************************************************************* 

After the feast, Narcissa and Cass continued chatting about various subjects, much to Lucius' chagrin. He finally came over and interrupted by asking his wife to dance, just as Severus came by to ask the same of Cass.

"Well?" the potions master inquired, once they were safely out of earshot.

"I could kill him. I think I could quite cheerfully slit his throat with a straight razor and make his body into meat pies for Guy Fawkes Day."

"Easy, Mrs. Lovett," Severus counseled. "That would be rather untoward."

"What, for the students?" Cass smiled maniacally. "Just the Slytherins. A little spice and they'd never know until the diarrhea hit."

"It's hard, isn't it?"

"Hard? Severus, it's impossible!" Cass struggled not to gesture to the aristocrats, dancing across the room as if nothing whatsoever were wrong. "How can she survive in a house with that…that-"

"Students, Cassandra. Don't use your fancy words." Snape deftly gave his collague a spin before pulling her back toward him. "If it makes you feel any better, Albus wants to have a word with you."

"Really? When?"

"Oh, about now." The song ended and Cass gave her 'adopted brother' a sickeningly sarcastic smile. 

"Nice of you to let me know, Sevvy dear." 

By the time she reached the Headmaster, however, Cass realized Lucius and he were already deep in debate.

"Electricity in Hogwarts? It's…it's illegal, is what it is!"

"Not in the building, Lucius," Dumbledore assuaged. 

"But on the very grounds!"

"Professor Tyler, if you would explain-?"

"Gladly!" The steel was back in Cass's voice. "The Shrieking Shack has been purchased by outside interests for a sizeable donation, and electricity has been generated there. It is my opinion that the basic knowledge of Muggle appliances and devices will enrich the lives of all my students, which is why I insist on it."

"Even if the mixture of electricity and magic is declared felonious?" Lucius barked.

"Oh, _dear_ Mr. Malfoy," Cass spat, sarcasm flavoring her speech like drops of well-placed poison. "You can pay the Ministry whatever you want, and no law on such mixture can touch me. You fail to recall I'm a diplomat."

"And when your immunity expires?" 

"It _doesn't_ in my country." 

By now, every soul in the Great Hall was staring.

"How can you let this –this _werewolf_ corrupt Britain's youth?" Lucius demanded of Dumbledore.

"Funny, I wasn't aware my kind were banned as staff. Shall we relinquish our suffrage and wear decorative chains?"

"It would be an improvement to letting libertine, Muggle-loving freaks warp the ideology of wizardkind!"

"Beats the _fuck_ out of letting _Death Eaters_ rule Britain!"

A tense silence fell like a robe over the student body and the gathered families. With a cold stare, Lucius whispered diabolically:

"How dare you, wolf?"

"How dare _I?" _With the boldness and rock-star bravado she had used to beat down Umbridge, Cass tore the sleeve from Lucius' left arm with one hand and smacked him hard across the face with her right. The Dark Mark was burning black as she lifted his fist high into the air. "Your master's calling you, _dog_. Hadn't you better fly?"

Dennis Creevey snapped a picture.

"Both of you!" Dumbledore intervened in a thundering voice. He raised his hands to pull Cass' death grip on Lucius' wrist apart, just as a hissing ray of orange light struck the American in the arm, about an inch from the elderly wizard's face. The hex echoed through the silent Hall:

"…optis Perfercias!"

Ron Weasley swung out with a deadly right hook to the jaw of the caster, and Bellatrix Lestrange staggered backward before making a break for it out the door. Ron and Harry both pursued her, wands drawn and with murder in their eyes; as Cass stared blankly at the charred skin of her elbow.

"Dear gods, what was that?" she inquired shakily. Lucius had gone ashen, looking at the wound. What should have been a fatal hex by now…wasn't even affecting her speech. "Hurts like a son of a-" 

"WWE ARRE HERRE!"

At the door of the Great Hall stood, not three female personages named after querying nouns beginning with the twenty-third letter of the alphabet, but three well-dressed gentlemen with the same nose and Melanie Watling, the ex-witch turned hooker. Mel, it should be remarked, was the only one in fishnet stockings.

"Guys!" Cass exclaimed, seeing them. "About time you goaa…"

And without further ado, she collapsed into her husband's arms.

************************************************************ 


	45. Smokey, Paul and Ringo

Chapter Forty-Five: Smokey, Paul and Ringo

Harry and Ron stopped short once they realized where the chase had led them. Bellatrix Lestrange, all too hasty in her escape, had headed directly into the den of Aragog and his clan of Acromantulas.

"Wait, Harry!" Ron cried, catching his friend by the sleeve of his dress robes. "Don't go in there!"

"Ron, I have to-!" Harry gasped. "She almost killed-"

"So let Aragog and his kids eat her!" The redheaded boy shook his friend by the shoulders. "They deserve the bint."

It eventually took some convincing, but Ron succeeded in quelling his friend's vengeful impulses. By the time they had returned to the Great Hall, the unconscious werewolf had been taken to Madam Pomfrey's and the guests had been carefully memory-charmed to believe that Cass had sprained her ankle while dancing. Hermione, Ginny and Blaise were talking to one of the three redheaded gentlemen who had arrived just after the attack. 

"I saw the curse hit her on the arm, right after she smacked Mr. Malfoy," Ginny explained. "Dumbledore was trying to stop the two of them fighting when it hit."

"From what direction?" the man inquired.

"We all _saw_ that whacko do the curse!" Blaise protested. "She was over there."

"It's just bureaucratic crap," the man explained. "Got to be official. Okay, and what color was the ray?"

"Bright orange." Ginny frowned. "It wasn't the…?"

"Actually, I believe it was."

"But it couldn't have been!" Hermione pointed out. "She wasn't dead when they took her upstairs…was she?"

"Hell," the man remarked absently, a half-smile almost replacing his frown. "If I know my sis, it'd take worse'n the Blood-Boil Curse to kill her off."

"Your sister?" Harry asked suddenly. 

"In-law," the man explained. "My name is Paul Tyler. John's my brother." Paul had the same shy grin and shaggy hair as his brother, but his eyes were darker and more intense. "Ringo and Smokey are interrogating that Malfoy fellow now."

"Interrogating?" Blaise asked, looking disappointed. 

"Well, it's not _so_ bad," Paul smirked. "Ringo thinks the Geneva Convention's more like guidelines than rules for treatment of prisoners. He's also awfully fond of his pain hexes. Say, I know you!" Harry braced for the usual 'can-I-see-the-scar' treatment, but Paul looked directly past him, to Ron. "You're the Gryffindor Keeper, aren't you? Ron Weasley?"

"Er…yes, sir."

"Cassie's sent pictures and reports of your last two seasons. I played Keeper for the New York Dragons for awhile."

"You're _that_ Paul Tyler?" Ron's eyes lit up. "Sir, I've followed your team since I was thirteen."

"I rather prefer yours," the Auror grinned. "You've got a 4/5 block record for three seasons solid. If you were pro, that'd be…well, a record, for one."

"You had a full three-limb hang block against Michigan!"

"Oh, yeah. That was a weird game. I loved the two-limb when you took the Bludger to the gut. Were you okay afterward?"

"After about six potions."

"All of which tasted vile?"

"More or less."

"Er, guys?" Ginny gave the Auror and her brother a raised eyebrow. "Direly wounded professor, servant of Voldemort on the loose? Can we get back to business here?"

************************************************************** 

Amazingly, the Blood-Boil curse didn't kill Cass Tyler after all. The very next day she was awake in the Hospital Wing, swearing a blue streak and pleading for a soda. Madam Pomfrey had her arm bandaged, Muggle-fashion, in a sling, as the curse had literally boiled her cartilage and most of the ligaments in her elbow joint. They could be regenerated, of course, but it would be awhile and she wouldn't be using her arm for at least a month. This news brought forth more swearing, as it meant Cass would have to sit out the staff Quidditch game. Her three brothers-in-law were jubilant at the fact that she would be well, but mystified, the eldest especially.

"That curse _will_ kill a werewolf," he explained, looking critically at the burns on his sister-in-law's arm. "What did you drink last night, Cassie?"

"A flask of Scotch, six Cokes, and a butterbeer."

"Jesus," the gray-eyed werewolf frowned. "Six Cokes?"

"Hey, she's a Tyler, idn't she?" Paul inquired. "You had nine bottles of Mountain Dew on the trip over, yourself, Smokey."

"Smokey?" Severus looked confusedly up from the table where he was brewing a painkiller. "I thought his name was George."

"It is," John explained. "But he's gray when he turns and his eyes are gray, so he's called Smokey."

"And we just call him Ringo for kicks," Paul added, tossing a roll of gauze to his youngest brother. 

"But it could be any one of those things that stopped the curse working," Smokey protested, a thoughtful frown on his face. "If there's a way of surviving that one, I'd like to bottle it."

"See why we get along so well with you, Sevvy?" Cass grinned. "I also had some chocolate fondue before the feast up in the Gryffie Girls' Quarters, and there was some really spiffing fruitcake…"

"Fondue?" Madam Pomfrey frowned. "How the sod did you make fondue in the dormitories?"

"Here you are, de- Professor Snape." Hermione closed the door behind her and brought the wormwood to her secret paramour, who quickly turned on her.

"Yes, Hermione, how did you manage fondue in the dormitories?" His frown had a raise to the eyebrow that told her why he was covering, and she improvised beautifully. 

"Why, Ginny's cauldron, of course." 

"Merlin's ghost!" Severus went ashen. "Sixth-year…the anti-inflammation potion might've blended with the chocolate, then the caffeine in the Cokes made it gelatinous-"

"And the alcohol let it remain in the capillaries of the cartilaginous tissue!" Smokey finished triumphantly. "All the curse _could_ do is burn one joint! It didn't give her a stroke _or_ a heart attack!"

_"What?"_ Cass looked startled.

"That's what the Blood-Boil Curse does, Cassie. Bubbles in the blood instantly stop the heart or damage the cerebral-"

"Holy shit! You mean I could'a _died_?"

"Well, that's the typical _use_ of the Blood-Boil," Severus pointed out.

"That mother should be Unforgivable!" 

"It is, back home. The Ministry here's still debating it." Ringo looked disgusted. "Already they're sending a reporter up for an interview, you know. If Harry Potter hadn't been preverbal seventeen years ago, they would've sent one to bother him, I swear." 

"Yes, Cassandra, can you _act_ sicker than you are?" Paul flipped his notepad back open. "It might make that Skeeter hag go away."

"Rita Skeeter? Aw, naw! I'd love t'be interviewed!"

"Darlin', are you sure?" John had a concerned look. "I've read some of what she writes -well, had it read to me, and she's sort of…"

"A towering bitch," Paul supplied.

"Yes, exactly."

"Bring the hosebeast on! She can't possibly out-skank Umbridge!"

************************************************************ 

"You know, that's really not very wise, darling."

"Severus, I'm worn out. What with the Yule Ball turning into an attack on Dumbledore by the killer of Sirius Black, only to be diverted by the elbow of my favorite tea–well, favorite Yank, come to think of it, not to mention I'm getting a cold."

"So you've chosen to immerse yourself in a tub of water up to the neck, behind an unwarded door?"

"I warded it very well!"

"Well, _I_ got in, didn't I?" Severus smirked. 

"_You're_ almost as powerful as Dumbledore. You don't count."

"Up to your ears and your wand is –how many feet away?"

"None." Hermione raised a graceful, dripping arm and cast a spell on him. "Ravelus stiticus!"

The unraveling spell neatly undid Severus' clothes. Just about every stitch he had on fell to the ground, excepting a rather remarkable pair of Slytherin-patterned boxer shorts. "Sweet peace, why the hell didn't-?"

"These are my _lucky_ pair, from school. I was playing Quidditch with those mad werewolves and Draco."

"And you've _warded_ them?"

"After _one_ Bludger to the balls, I felt it would be prudent." Hermione tried her damnedest, but wound up giggling, anyway. "What's so funny?"

"I just had this mental image…"

"Of the Bludger? That was in school, I'll have you know." Severus glared. "And you wonder why Sirius Black and I hated each other's guts." Hermione went wicked.

"Tell me, did you ever get back at him?"

"In seventh-year he took two in one game. I'm amazed old Snuffles wasn't a neutered dog." Looking as ticky as he usually did in class, Severus crossed his arms and looked about the Prefects' bathroom, taking in the décor. "How unbearably tasteless," was his verdict.

"It _is_ awfully tacky, yes," Hermione conceded. 

"I've seen better-decorated abattoirs." Severus picked up a rubber ducky, which let out an offended-sounding squeak. "What do you call this?"

"It's a rubber duck."

"For hunting whilst in the tub?"

"It's a Muggle thing." Severus frowned.

"Clearly." He made the duck squeak a few more times, slowly smiling as it made the chipper sound. "You know, I might grow to like this thing. It has character."

"I'll keep that in mind." Hermione moved slightly toward the professor, so that the hot water and bubbles kept her covered up to the collarbone. She was actually smirking. "Are you going to play with the rubber duck all night or will you get your Slytherin arse in here?"

"Why, Miss Granger," Severus replied, looking as scandalized as he could. "Are you implying that you wish me to conduct myself inappropriately?"

"Yes, as much as is humanly possible. You. Tub. Now."

For all her commanding bravado, Hermione still let out a startled squeak when Severus leapt boldly into the tub. There was a splash, and as the bubbles fled the surface she dove to avoid being seen. 

"What the sod are you doing?"

"Hiding." Hermione caught a breath and then re-submerged. Severus caught her from behind and lifted her out of the water. As the cold air touched her skin, she let out another squeak.

"You sound like the rubber duck," Severus observed, turning her around so that they faced each other. "Shall I squeeze you, too?" 

"I would like that, yes."

A few moments later, Hermione had a new command: "And get those damn lucky boxers off."

******************************************************************** 

Ginny happily began reading the new interview on page nine of the Daily Prophet. She could practically feel the giggles coming just after she saw the headline:

_'Rebellious Defenders Within Hogwarts' by Rita Skeeter._

_Albus Dumbledore has done it again. Where legendary Auror Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody once trod, American operatives have come from far across the Pond to protect the next generation of England's wizarding youth. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will certainly have a hard time reaching our children with these Aurors on the prowl! All five are fully-qualified graduates of the Corey Institute, America's best Auror-training school, and two of them are certified Past Masters of Tracking, a qualification unheard-of in Britain since the war against Grindelwald.   
            The sole female among these gifted defenders is herself a double Master, though in the controversial fields of Muggle Technology Applications and Counter-Programming, skills she has put to use in her official post as Hogwarts' Muggle Studies Professor. Lieutenant Cassandra Tyler attributes her success with the American Aurory to her father, her Muggle-born upbringing, and "a great lot of spy movies." In the interview below, yours truly seeks to further unravel the mystery behind the controversial multinational defense program at Hogwarts.  
Rita Skeeter: So, Lieutenant Tyler, how are you?_

_Lt. Tyler: Right now?_

_RS: Well, yes, right now…_

_Lt.T: My left arm hurts like hell. How about you?  
RS: I'm –er, fine…tell me, what is it like to teach the famous Harry Potter?  
Lt.T: Harry? Oh, he does alright in class. His essay comparing two Muggle films was one of my favorites._

_RS: Rumor has it that you and former Hogwarts school governor Lucius Malfoy are engaged in a feud, Lieutenant. Is there any truth to this?  
Lt.T: You can call me Cass. My rank sounds so…pole-up-arse.  
RS: Oh, yes! And is it true you allow students to call you 'Professor Cass', shattering academic tradition?  
Lt.T:  Oh, yeah. It's a matter of convenience, really. See, my husband also teaches there, and having two 'Professor Tylers' would get really confusing.  
RS: I see. Getting back to your students, which would you say show the most promise?  
Lt.T: In what?  
RS: In joining your field, of course.  
Lt.T: Which?  
RS: Why, the Aurory.  
Lt.T: Well, I don't teach Auror Training 101, Ms. Skeeter, I teach Muggle Studies.  
RS: And what does that entail?  
Lt.T: The study and appreciation of all things Muggle.  
RS: Have you encountered resistance to your subject?  
Lt.T: From the students, not much. Once they see how much fun it is, they generally put aside the prejudices they imbibed with their baby food and begin making rapid progress. Some parents and wizards are really opposed to some of my curriculum, though.  
RS: And why is that?  
Lt.T: I d'know. Maybe it is because I, like Headmaster Dumbledore, don't believe in sugarcoating the truth about Voldemort and what they're up against. I also believe that the Ministry, like any government, is, in fact, fallible, and to speak down to the young is to cripple them. (Pause.) I also let my students read books that interest them.  
RS: You and Ministry official Dolores Umbridge have had several notable clashes, have you not?  
Lt.T: Well, yes. We are ideological opposites and between her smugness and my temper, it's really a wonder it hasn't come to a duel someplace.   
RS: Your temper has also distinguished you from sundry of your peers, is that correct?  
Lt.T: Most decidedly. I was arrested earlier this schoolyear for an incident involving my temper.  
RS: Tell the readers about it.  
Lt.T: Well, a girl was forced to marry her rapist. That sort of thing tends to piss me off.  
RS: And you crashed the wedding reception?  
Lt.T: You bet your boots, I did, Rita. It's rather a lucky thing for the parties in question that Kingsley Shacklebolt was one of the Aurors sent to arrest me.  
RS: Why is that?  
Lt.T: Because I was loaded for bear as it was and they tried to use wands on me. Poor Kingsley wound up having to pull me off the one sonofabitch by the scruff of my neck.  
RS: You were agitated?  
Lt.T: And rather drunk. I've been sober for two months –mostly, but booze does make us werewolves violent.  
RS: That's another thing. You and the other four American Aurors at Hogwarts are all werewolves.  
Lt.T: We're all family, too. My husband John and I have been here for a year, and his three brothers just arrived over Christmas holidays.  
RS: Have you had any opposition due to your lycanthropy?  
Lt.T: Yes, though I can't think why. Our condition is quite well controlled with Professor Snape's Wolfsbane potion, and he makes improvements constantly. You might say we're his guinea pigs.  
RS: Professor Snape seeks to improve the potion?  
Lt.T: Of course! He's taken out two patents since the start of term, one with his assistant, and he's managed to remove roughly half of the unpleasant side effects. (Pause.) It still tastes awful, though.  
RS: What advice would you offer a young werewolf?  
Lt.T: Start washing your hair once a week with dish detergent. It keeps the fleas away and makes your fur extra-soft.  
RS: Seriously?  
Lt.T: I swear. Helps Animagi, too.  
RS: I must remember that…Tell me, what is your favorite part of Hogwarts?  
Lt.T: (Pause) I think the comfy chair in Professor Snape's office.  
RS: Er, no…I meant, what do you like best about the school?  
Lt.T: Oh, the people! The little first-years, the seventh-years who know good dirty jokes, the professors…I've never had more fun. Even if I am there as a watchdog and a deprogrammer, it's a great place to be.  
RS: Well, the Daily Prophet thanks you for your time.  
Lt.T: No prob, Rita. _

Ginny stifled a laugh. She could practically picture Rita Skeeter's face. With a grin on her face, she set down the paper and headed for the Prefects' Bathroom for a relaxing soak in the tub. Once she had filled the pool-size bath with hot water and lavender-scented bubbles, however, she noticed something strange. A black, silky object was hanging from a wall sconce, as if it had been stretched and shot there by the elastic. She prodded it and it fell to the ground. She held it up.

A sense of horror filled her. Slytherin-patterned boxer shorts! Sweet Satan!

Then she remembered who _else_ in Gryffindor was a prefect.

She laughed.

Then something else occurred to her. How had she gotten the shorts off? And why? And what was she doing with her Slytherin boyfriend in a bathroom…?

Ginny decided that she would not be using the tub that night, after all.

********************************************************** 


	46. Lang, Darrow & Lecter

Chapter Forty-Six: Lang, Darrow and Lecter

"Can anyone tell me why this scene is ironic?" 

It was a bitterly cold January afternoon, with a roomful of students warm in the Shrieking Shack. Their professor, her left arm eerily limp and lifeless at her side, had a narrow gray remote in her hand. An image of hundreds of identical workers heading into a tunnel as more headed out was frozen on the movie screen opposite. "Ginny?"

"Because this was what would happen in Germany in a few more years?"

"Precisely."

Cass was showing one of the weirder 'crucial classics' included in her curriculum: Fritz Lang's 1927 film _Metropolis_. It was black-and-white, but that description didn't just apply to the screen. It was an exceedingly metaphorical tale, with so many Biblical and dogmatic references that the young professor had a few assorted Bibles on her desk for looking up specifics. Since the film was German and rather old, Cass had elected only to show it to her most dedicated Muggle Studies students. Those who had taken it as an elective before the course went mandatory were in a separate, almost honors-level class, and they would be receiving extra credit for their work. 

A few scenes later, a hand went up, casting a shadow on the screen. The film stopped mid-frame and Cass called: "Luna?"

"The Molech machine?"

"Biblical reference. Molech was a pre-Exodus deity that demanded human sacrifice."

"Oh, I knew that. I was just wondering why the one actor's headdress is on sideways."

"I d'know. Might be a costuming cockup."

"Not a reference to Gog and Magog?"

"I don't know. Good point, there, Luna." Cass shrugged and hit the 'play' button on the DVD remote. "It could be."

As on the screen, the huge, special-effects intense Molech machine pretended to eat half-naked, sweaty actors alive to lubricate the pistons of the giant engine, Cass poured herself another cup of coffee with her right hand. Silent films, Lang's and Griffith's especially, were great for discussion-based classes. They were also, unfortunately, lousy for potty breaks. She managed to duck out and be back before the end of the next scene, albeit with her belt still undone. She tried and still couldn't manage the buckle one-handed. Fuck it. She pulled the belt out of the denim loops that held it and tossed it away. 

"What was that?" Michael Corner asked.

"I have decided that belts are an evil pretension of the bourgeoisie and have therefore discarded mine. I advise you all to do the same."

To Cass' surprise, there was a rustling of buckles and then several belts joined hers in the corner. "I wasn't _serious!_ Pick 'em up after the movie's done."

After the movie _did_ finish, and after a rousing discussion of what Fritz Lang meant by the presence of nearly-bared, quite real and effectively joggling breasts in the 'Whore of Babylon' scene, Ginny and Luna approached their professor. 

"About the Molech machine-?"

"Yeh?" Cass replied mid coffee-slurp.

"Well, what have you decided to call…you know?"

"Because if you called it the Molech machine it'd be a dead giveaway," Luna observed wryly. 

"We've been calling it the 'you-know,' actually. Does it need a better name?" Cass was in a fairly wretched mood. Luna smiled happily.

"The kids call it the Secret Weapon."

The new wallpaper suddenly got a splattery coffee stain.

"How da' fuck d'the _kids_ know about it?"

"Oh, they don't," Luna explained. "But there are rumors to the effect that the Professors Tyler are building a Secret Weapon which will someday and soon save us all."

"More along the lines of hope and fable than a security leak," Ginny added.

"Well, by Merlin's mighty balls themselves," Cass remarked sourly. "Tell y'what, Luna, let your dad expound on those rumors a bit in the '_Quibbler'_. Make it huge. Call it whatever the fuck you like. Ginny, get Professor McGonagall to try and hush it up, so everybody knows. I want Moldy-Voldy's people convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that we do _not_ have any such weapon." The lean American set down her cup and reached for the coffee pot again with her only good hand, burning herself. "Fuck it all with a stick!" she cried, sinking back into a wingback armchair.

"Professor, are you okay?" Luna took the coffeepot and filled Cass's cup for her. "Not to be impolite, but you look like hell spat you out."

"Up yours," Cass retorted half-heartedly.

"She's right," Ginny pointed out, adding an extra silencing ward to the closed door. "Spill it, Yank, or I'll sic 'Mione on your ass."

"She's got more to worry about, pal, not to mention I could take her."

"Oh, sure, with one arm." Ginny frowned. "Explain yourself, or I'll have Professor Snape in here so fast his shoes'll smoke."

"He's _not here,_ you little Gryffipuff- Slythindor- Huffleclaw…" Cass slurred.

"How much coffee have you had?" Luna asked suddenly, looking at the pot.

"Only 'bout five."

"Cups?"

"Pots."

_"Today?"_ Ginny felt her professor's pulse. "Christ on a cracker, Yankee. What have you eaten today?" Cass shrugged and Ginny knew the answer: nothing. "And how much booze did you polish off last night?"

"She's been sober, Ginny," Luna pointed out.

"How'd you know?" Cass inquired sleepily.

"Your clothes don't smell of liquor, but you _did_ sleep in them." Luna indicated the wrinkles in both the t-shirt and the black work robes. "Just like Dad before a deadline."

"She's burning up," Ginny told Luna, feeling Cass's forehead. "Better get Hagrid."

"I'm fucking _fine_…"

"Like hell you are." The redhead pulled on her cloak and handed the American's wand to Luna. "Keep her here. I'll be right back."

********************************************************* 

"Dare I even ask?" Hermione looked testily at Hagrid, who was carrying Cass over his shoulder again. She had been refilling some of Madam Pomfrey's painkiller vials when they arrived. "If she's drunk again, just throw her in the-"

_"I'm not drunk,_ for the _thirteenth_ time!" Cass protested. "Put me down, you great fuzzy bear!"

"She's got a temperature and a pole up her arse the size of France," Ginny explained. 

"Well, unless the blood is spurting or the limb is off, I can't be bothered," Hermione retorted. "Cass, drink this and get some rest, dammit." She slid a cup of something that smelled ghastly across the table. _"Now."_

"What is _with_ you two?" Luna cried suddenly, silencing everyone. "Did Crookshanks choke on Professor Cass's pet fish and die?"

There was a horrified silence for about a minute.

"I never kept a fish."

"Wait a tick," Hagrid said, calmly setting the ruffled professor on her feet. "Is this because John and Severus aren' -?"

_"Yes!"_ Ginny pointed a finger at the two offending witches. "They haven't come back from the last mission, _have_ they? _That's_ why you two are acting like a terminal Midol case!"

"Mission?" Luna looked confused. "Why would Professor Snape's not being back bother –oh, sweet _peace!_ It's _true,_ isn't it?" Hermione went ashen as the Ravenclaw produced a folded newsletter and indicated one of the articles. "Hermione, you and the Tylers and Snape are the reincarnations of the Four Founders, aren't you? I _knew_ it! Where do you keep the badger?" 

"Luna, for chrissakes, whatever you're smoking," Cass began.

"Oh, I know you have to deny it for the prophecy to come true, but seriously," Luna pulled out a little notepad and a quill, reporter-style. "Which of you is Gryffindor?"

"What prophecy?" Hermione asked.

"You remember, the one about the Four Founders being reincarnated and coming forth to do battle on the Dark and making the world safe for unicorns."

"Who made that prophecy?" Cass asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Professor Trelawney, last week."

"Oooh, look, Luna! A crumple-horned snorkack!" Hermione pointed to the window, easily distracting the eccentric girl. 

"I don't see a-"

"Two of them! In the bushes, they're mating!" Cass added. "Run! If you sell pictures to a bestiality website you'll make millions."

"That's not a crumple –it's Professor Snape!" Luna excitedly pointed out the window. "He and Professor Tyler are dragging a-" She turned to tell her friends, but saw only an empty room. "Oh." 

Four floors down, on the ground, Cass and Hermione recovered quite spectacularly from their bitchy spells. Despite numerous cuts and bruises on both, John and Severus were clearly quite happy to see them, Severus especially, and Harry and Ron, still in their Quidditch robes, were treated to quite a nasty shock. 

It wasn't the fairly common sight of the Professors Tyler kissing and almost licking each other in an excess of joy that made their jaws drop, though. Just about everyone in the castle was used to _that_. Rather, it was the sight of straight-laced Hermione, the bookworm master general, being quite literally swept off her feet by their direly dour Potions Master. 

"I love you, Severus."

"I love you too-"

_"WHAT THE FUCK?!"_

"How romantic," Luna blithely observed upstairs.

_"Busted,"_ Ginny mumbled to noone in particular.

****************************************************************** 

"But- but you can't-!"

"You're- she's- you two aren't-?"

"Aw, shut your traps, Gryffie boys." Cass had her good arm around her husband's neck and a lazily contented grin on her face. "Or I'll memory-charm you both."

"She'll do it," John agreed. "Haven't you already had to zap Ron, what, twice, m'love?"

They had gotten out to the Shrieking Shack with a minimum of arguing, but now the shock was giving way to argumentative older-brotheryness from the two unfortunate seventh-years.  The only people having even a speck of fun were Hagrid and Ginny, who appeared to be placing bets on who had kittens first, until Harry cast a betrayed look toward his girlfriend.

"Ginny, you _knew_ about this?"

"_My own sister_ was in on it?" Ron gasped. 

"Well, not _in_ on it, persay, I'd have _heard_ about a three-way," Cass observed absently.

"Holy _shit!"_

"Look, guys, we can handle this. Severus, Hermione, go in there and shut the door." John indicated the kitchen. Ron went even redder about the ears. 

"Don't leave them alone!"

"Alright, Hagrid, you go with them. Ginny, you stay here. Right?" The werewolf pulled off his torn winter cloak. "Cassie, would you ward the kitchen door?"

"Righty-day."

"Okay." John took out his wand and accio'd the assorted armchairs closer. "Sit down, everyone. We can straighten this out."

"Straighten this out?" Ron's eyes fairly bulged. Harry looked wounded.

"Our best friend and the Greasy Git are practically-!"

"Both of you!" The associate professor's voice boomed, louder and more impressively than Snape on his best day. "Now you will listen to evidence for the defense before bringing forth arguments in prosecution. Any further interruptions will be held in contempt of court. Do you understand me?" Mutely, the boys nodded.

"Court?" Ginny whispered to the longingly smiling Cass.

"I love it when he does lawyer," was the sighed reply.

"Counsel for the defense: Cassie."

"Oh, right." Cass stood up. "Your Honor, I postulate that 'Mione and Sevvy are arse-over-teakettle." Ron and Harry looked numbly at their professor. "I have caught Sevvy _whistling_ after they've been working on a potion together."

"Whistling! Of course that lecherous-!"

"Mr. Weasley, you are out of line!" John pounded his gavel, then looked at his hand and realized he didn't have one. "Cassie, where's that mallet-y thing?"

"Use your shoe, darling."

"Right." The werewolf took off his shoe and pounded it on the coffee table. "Order! Mr. Weasley, you are in contempt of court. Fifty points from Gryffindor!"

_"What?"_

"I will make you see reason in any way I see fit, Mr. Potter. Continue, counsel."

"I hear banging," Hermione told Severus.

"I call my first witness, Miss Ginny Weasley," Cass announced. Ginny obligingly stood up and turned around. "Miss Weasley, does 'Mione love Sevvy?"

"I don't know-"

"Does it _look_ like she at least _fancies_ him?"

"Well, yeah, they adore each other, but-"

"You admit it! And does it appear that Sevvy is at least _marginally_ less of a snarky, pole-up-arse, _total_ Slytherin bat king when he's in her presence?"

"Completely. He's actually human."

"And is it not _so_, Miss Weasley," Cass began to stride around the room Billy Flynn style, "that Sevvy actually approached _you_ for help in deciding 'Mione's birthday present?"

"Not _even_ a birthday present!" Ginny burst out, grinning. "He wanted help for no particular reason!"

"I find that hard to believe, Ginny! And is it _true_ that you have seen them _snogging_ on no less than _six_ occasions, and really _liking_ it, no less?"

"Eight!"

"Your Honor, I postulate that if Hermione _didn't_ know _exactly_ what she was doing, she would not have remained Sevvy's potions apprentice a record _five months_ after her project last year was done, turned in, and returned with an 'A'." Ron actually looked sick. "I further postulate that Sevvy is more in love with her than _any_ man has been with _any_ woman in the entire history of Great Britain!" Cass waved her hand triumphantly, then blew a kiss to John. "Present company excepted, of course." 

"Objection," Ginny remarked mildly. "How do you propose to know this?"

"I read his diary once." 

"Counselor, do you _actually_ believe that these two are serious, responsible, and completely arse-over-teakettle?" John inquired sternly.

"I do!"

"And do you hereforth swear, that you vouch for both of their intellect, sincerity, and the mutual propriety of their intentions?"

"On my mother's grave!"

The Tylers were growing closer and closer as the line of questioning continued.

"You trust that your adopted brother Severus acts respectfully and without lecherous intent?"

"Completely."

"You believe that Hermione, your student and comrade-at-arms, is not only old enough, but further, bright enough, to know her own mind and heart?"

"As well if not better than I do mine," Cass almost whispered brushing John's hair out of his eyes for him. The couple came within a gnat's eyelash of a kiss, before Ron made a strangled noise and they turned back to the two boys, all business.

"Mr. Weasley, do you acknowledge these arguments?"

Ron glowered at them.

"Mr. Potter?"

There was a long silence before Harry cried:

"But he's fucking _Snape!"_

"Who has saved your life on –let me count, what is it? Three occasions?" Cass raised her eyebrow. "You don't honestly think he's evil, do you?"

"Look at the way he treats Harry, because of his dad!" Ron pointed out.

"As god-awfully as you treated Draco because of his?" 

"That's different! Malfoy started it!"

"As did _your_ father, Harry! Past mistakes do not render a person incapable or undeserving of redemption!" Cass was at her fiercest and everyone knew it. "So he's older? If I hadn't used a time-turner, John would be at least eight years older than me! And look at Dumbledore and McGonagall! They've got nearly four decades on Sevvy and 'Mione's age gap and look at them! So he's a Slytherin? So the fuck am I! So he's mean in class? From whom have you learned more in as short a time? You want to see mean in class, you give Hermione crap! I will _show_ you mean!" 

Cass threw a coffee cup to the ground, shattering it.   
"You think being an ex-Death Eater is bad? Severus Snape has done more and worked harder to bring down Voldemort than any other wizard alive, _including_ Albus Dumbledore and your godfather! Has it simply never occurred to you how much good he's done? And Hermione-!" 

A vase joined the coffee cup. 

"She's how many years ahead of your class intellectually, put up with how much crap in this war, and when two people like them are lucky enough to find each other, you two, supposedly her best friends, what do you do?" A saucer was thrown, but bounced. John had gotten out his wand and started countering the shrapnel as Cass raged. "So much for Gryffindors! I've seen better loyalty from Bellatrix Lestrange!"

"Speaking of," John interrupted mildly. "We _did_ find her, dear. Would you levitate her in after you've finished?"

"Oh, I've finished with these two!" 

With a final glare, Cass stormed out to the foyer, presumably to get the Petrified witch Severus and John had dragged back, but instead of bringing her in, she slammed the front door. Ginny looked out a window and saw the professor stomping through the snow, a stiff Bellatrix floating behind her.

"She's dragging her by the hair."

"Hell, I don't blame her." John looked concernedly out the window, then half-smiled at Ginny. "Got a camera?"

"What?"

"Well, that'd be one cool postcard…" The werewolf remembered the 'trial' and frowned. "Right." He drew his wand and unwarded the kitchen door. "You can come back, now, you three." As Hagrid, Hermione and Severus slunk in, John turned to Harry and Ron. "I think you two get it. Ginny, if you'd straighten this mess out? I've got to go catch my wife."

************************************************************** 

One week later, things were mostly improved. The pathological Lestrange had been handcuffed, Muggle-fashion, to a hospital bed, and Cass was spending her time directly next to her –down with a roaring case of chicken pox on top of pneumonia. The insults were really quite colorful at first, but they soon got it down to a civilized back-and-forth of loathing.

"Filthy werewolf." 

"Evil hag."

"Blood traitor."

"Dirty skank."

"Skank?" Bellatrix actually looked confused.

"Means a really…I'm not sure what it means. How'm I a blood traitor?"

"You're Lucius' girl, aren't you?"

"Huh?" Cass tried her best to look confused, but Bellatrix gestured, chain rattling, at her neck.

"You have his eyes…and the Malfoy nose, though it looks like you've broken it."

"Twice."

"Quidditch?"

"Hockey."

"Well, I should know. My sister married him," Bellatrix explained smugly.

"I know." Cass looked even more pissed than before. 

"Blood traitor."

"Aunt Bella, are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?" It was Tonks. "Keep in mind, she's got a wand and an Unforgiveables license."

"Yeah," Cass mumbled, hugging the stuffed badger Luna had sent and sniffling.

"And spots," Bellatrix pointed out.

"I've got chicken pox."

"At your age?" Tonks looked confused.

"I somehow managed to miss it as a kid. Lucky me."

"Your sarcasm reminds me. Severus sent this." Tonks handed the werewolf a vial with a cork in it.

"Yay!" Cass pulled out the cork and started drinking it. 

"Tell me that's Wolfsbane potion?"

"Nope. Anti-itching stuff." Tonks raised an eyebrow at her aunt. "What's wrong, Aunt Bella? Scared of Professor Cass?"

"Filthy blood traitors."

"Thank you so much, 'Dora," Cass replied politely. "There's a whole heap of those cinnamon things you like in the upper left drawer of my desk for you to eat during class."

"Shall I bring some up?"

"No, thank you." Cass bared her teeth maliciously at Bellatrix. "I'm not hungry…yet."

*************************************************************** 


	47. Friendships in the Start

This chapter is for Lightning Rain, my new illustrator. (Yep, gonna have pictures soon.) You go, girl!

Chapter Forty-Seven: Friendships in the Start

January gave way to February before all of Cass's spots faded. In spite of Severus' anti-itching potions, she had managed to give herself a tiny scar on her injured arm, more out of testing to see if it had regained sensation yet than because it itched. It had, just a little, and she was wiggling her fingers constantly, just because she could. 

Hermione's studying had intensified almost to the point of madness. Cass told her to ease up the first time she caught her in the library after-hours. Severus took until she almost fell asleep in class. Professor McGonagall pleaded with her after she found her asleep in the Common Room three nights in a row. Harry and Ron were so constant in their admonitions from the start that Hermione managed to tune them out –all of them.

By the time April Fools Day prank plans began, Bellatrix Lestrange had gotten used to her cell deep in the bowels of Hogwarts –a made-over single lavatory the Americans had converted with a cot and some bars. Dumbledore had arranged for her to be confined there, as keeping her in Azkaban would have alerted the other Death Eaters that she still lived. The rumor of her death in the Forbidden Forest had hit the Prophet like a sex scandal, only happily, and most everyone outside of the Orders or the American Aurory team believed it. 

Harry had pleaded to be one of the ones involved in the interrogation process, but John and his brothers were willing to back up Dumbledore's orders that he not. On the memorable occasion that Harry attempted to get in with his cloak, Ringo caught him and took him out to the Quidditch pitch. Five hours later, an exhausted but peaceful Harry returned to hug his friends and explain that he wouldn't try again. 

Ringo also let Madam Hooch know they needed new Bludgers.

As her arm came slowly back to life, Cass grew ever more eager to take her turn at the interrogation. She sometimes walked the tightrope that is the thin line between fair treatment of prisoners and a war crime, but then, Bellatrix had broken all the rules of civilized war (if there was and is such a thing,) with her atrocities. Occasionally Narcissa dropped by and watched interrogations through the two-way mirror Smokey and Paul had put into an old classroom's wall, but she never met with her sister. She seemed, to all observers, to be enduring some emotional conflict as she watched, listening through the Muggle microphones. 

All the electronics had lately been converted to run on magic, with a reversal of the technology used to create the You-Know-What Machine called an Arthurian Transformer. (The wife of its' inventor had named it.) Cass was preparing to use a new form of coercion on Bellatrix when Melanie Watling appeared and entered the Interrogation Chamber.

"Cool stereo," she observed, noting the large silver-and-gray system Cass was fiddling with. The speakers had been arranged around a comfy chair, one of the ones from the Shrieking Shack, so that sound would literally surround the listener. It wasn't on yet, and Bellatrix clearly didn't know what the whole apparatus was. "What d'you got?"  Cass held up a CD and grinned.

"The latest in interrogation techniques."

"Why Lady Cat, you _evil_ creature," Melanie remarked, taking the case and reading it, a sardonic smile on her face. "This for _starters?_ That's like raping a virgin, girl."

"My loyalty to my Master will not break," Bellatrix promised for the umpteenth time, a declaration that was growing weaker by the week. "I shall be most favored among-"

_"Sure," _Mel and Cass retorted as one, a sarcastic unison.

"I'm going to enjoy breaking the news to you when he's finally kaput," Cass announced.

"She won't believe you. But _I'll_ bring proof." Mel, curiously, was the most vicious of all to Bellatrix. "I think Voldemort's _heart_, perhaps, cut out with a dull spoon as he _writhes_ in the agonies of Potter's final curse…shame I can't kill him myself….with a cheese grater…_slowly_…"

_"You lie!"_ Bellatrix fairly squeaked. Cass had a disturbed look on her face.

"Okay, Mel, Geneva Convention lecture time again."

"Cassie, you know I will," Mel explained cheerfully. 

"Yes, yes, yes, whatever you say. Just cut down on the gore, okay? Some of us jailers ate recently." Cass made the chair recline as she quoted: "'Atrocity, even in the mind or tongue, sinks us to the enemy's level.'"

"Who said _that?"_ Mel inquired disgustedly, heading for the door.

"Some human-rights person. Out you go." Cass closed up behind her friend. "Alright, Bella, just you and the werewolf now."

"I will never bend in my devotion."

"Righty-day. But you _will_ learn to respect Muggles-"

_"Respect_ those-?"

"As the fellow humans that they are," Cass finished. "I'm not asking you to give up your bigotry all at once, but you are going to recognize the fact that they are not subhuman or subordinate to wizards."

"Like hell I will!" There was a long silence, until Bellatrix's curiosity overcame her. "How would you?"

"A good dose of their music should make you think. Your meals will arrive regularly, and there's a toilet behind that curtain. The chair reclines if you get tired."

"You're _keeping_ me in here?"

"It's a step up from your old cell, mate. There are sixty CDs in this changer, programmed to play constantly, selecting tracks at total random. I think it'll be…a week before you've heard them all, or maybe two. They do repeat on occasion, so you can acquire some favorites. We'll start with Meat Loaf's classic, 'Bat Out of Hell.' Any questions?"

"I'll turn your noise box off," Bellatrix threatened.

"You can't, dear." Cass hit the 'play' button and then cast a quick, complicated charm with her wand. "Now you can't even make the volume change. If you decide you like something in particular, write it down on that pad over there. You can write whatever you want, keep a diary, say how much of a git I am, anything." The volume rose and Cass grinned. "I'll be going now. Enjoy the music."

The look on Bellatrix' face, it should be remarked, was priceless.

"Oh, and one more thing," Cass added. "Cover your ears, it'll get louder. Part of my clever spell. G'night."

As she locked and warded the door, Cass heard a familiar footfall.

"You're good at your job." Narcissa.

"Thank you." Cass tried to keep her voice devoid of emotion. "The walls have a padding spell, in case you're worried."

"Oh, no, she wouldn't hurt the stone much." It was a cold jest that coming from Sevvy would have made Cass laugh herself into fits. From Narcissa, she half-smiled before noting down her out time on the clipboard by the door. "May I talk with you?" the aristocrat asked.

"If it's about Draco's grades, he's third in class rank for wizard-borns," Cass replied coolly.

"No…we could use Severus' office, if you like."

"Why not mine?" Cass inquired sharply. "Scared of the werewolf?"

"Didn't want to invite myself," Narcissa smiled. "I like werewolves."

"How pluralistic of you. Your bridge club must be so proud."

"Are you still angry about…" Narcissa trailed off.

"About what?"

"Well, everything."

"I would imagine I have a right to be."

"Well, not to resemble one of your first year pupils with this cry, but you sure as fuck don't have to take it out on me."

"A Malfoy said fuck without a Quidditch foul. Call a priest."

"I was a Black first, thank you, and if you know my niece you know our language leaves much to be desired."

"Does't?" Cass had a horrible look. "I _wasn't_ a Malfoy first."

"No." Narcissa smiled, with an expression somewhat like pride. "You're something new, as is Draco. Your family isn't your whole identity, you know."

"Don't say that near your husband," Cass warned, her defenses weakening slightly. "I imagine he's still sleeping on the couch?"

"That's what I need your help about," Narcissa admitted. "Your office?"

"Deal." Cass led the way, behind a wonderfully discreet portrait of a deceased wizarding gossip columnist. Having met her end somewhat traumatically, her habits had reformed to the point where she could be trusted past the grave. "Have a seat."

"These aren't Hogwarts chairs?" Narcissa eyed the neon purple velvet with green patches that covered Cass's favorite wingback.

"No, they're mine."

"I like them. Very Andy Warhol." For a second, Cass flashed a brilliant grin, Warhol being one of Pittsburgh's favorite sons. "And the chrome is a nice touch."

"I redid them with John three summers ago," Cass explained. "We were sick of ugly flowered 70's fabric."

"How did you two meet?"

"It's a strange story…we ran into each other at a rock concert, since out seats were next to each other, and we got to chatting, but we each assumed we'd never see each other again, but the very next week, we each decided to go on the Thunderbolt –that's a roller coaster- alone, and we were seated next to each other there. Pretty neat, eh?"

"Like destiny playing chess and mating the king."  Narcissa smiled wistfully. "Roller coasters, are they romantic things?" Cass chortled.

"Not really. They're more like wild, lust-crazed Chinese dragons you ride on the back of into uncertainty, or runaway trains to oblivion." She thought for a second. "Park benches, though, those are romantic, when you can see the dancing lights of the rides, hear both screams and laughs …but the world only matters in that little area where you're sitting."

"Is there music?"

"Oh, yes," Cass recalled fondly. "The calliope, the organ, the rock n' roll from the speakered rides…there's lots of music there. Sometimes there are parades of high school marching bands."

"Are high school marching bands any good in America?"

"Some. There are always the one or two that sound as though the tuba player's deaf and the drummers suffering from St. Vitus' dance, but we have some that don't hurt to listen to."

"You play an instrument?"

"Guitar an' electric bass."

"I'm a harpsichord kind of girl." Narcissa frowned. "Never even learned the cool kinds of music, thanks to my parents."

"Here." Cass pulled a long, black object from behind a shelf. "Electric keyboard –a Korg 2290-XD. You can turn Vivaldi into techno with this mother."

"We don't have electricity."

"That's okay. I'll fire it up for you out at the Shack, and you can come by and play whenever you feel like it."

"Don't you use it?"

"I can't play the piano to save my sorry Yankee butt," Cass explained, "and John won't touch anything with less than the full eighty-eight keys, as a matter of principle. We have a huge Mellotron-looking synth with a full board for him. I was supposed to be learning on this, but with my arm dead for the moment, I've been neglecting my practicing."

"Draco plays, you know."

"He does?" Cass, to Narcissa's shock, actually looked ticked. "That little scuzzball, not telling me! I could have a student rock band after all!"

"Really?" Narcissa was pleased by this idea. "That would offend Lucius so totally…what kind of instruments would you need?"

"Oh, the whole nine…I think Dean Thomas has his own bass, but Neville only had the drums for the Yule Ball year before last on loan… and there's the amp question."

"We'll go to London together and raid all the music stores," Narcissa announced grandly, brandishing a Gringotts key. "Would a lighting system be overkill?"

Cass's expression had gone from calculating the necessaries to suspicious.

"And you expect your husband to tolerate that?"

"I expect it to offend him."

"Mrs. Malfoy, he's a Death Eater! The fact that you're his wife won't stop him hurting-" Cass realized that Narcissa had a knowing smirk. "Good lord, that's what you want, isn't it?"

"If I can't get any proof against his Death Eating through the Ministry, I can sure as hell get wife-beating."

"Has he ever-?"

"Nope. That's the tricky bit. The idiot still loves me –can't think why."

"Narcissa, that's entrapment." Cass frowned for a second, then brightened. "Which you don't have laws against in Britain, do you?"

"Nope." Narcissa grinned. "Good to know we're finally on first-name terms."

"Well," Cass explained, flushing a bit that she had slipped. "We share a lot of enemies. S'only natural."

"Yes, we share a lot of enemies," Narcissa agreed. "And a lot of friends."

"Like Dumbledore."

"And Severus," the blond lady pointed out. "Does your Auror training forbid you from divulging secrets?"

"Depends about what and to whom."

"I've heard rumors about my friend."

"Snarky, yes. Vampire, no."

"You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Yes."

"So you're not telling me?"

"Nope."

"Alright." Narcissa smiled. "Just felt I'd try. _Is_ there any hope for Bella?"

"Hope for her to what?"

"Be herself again, not a chattel of Voldemort."

"Possibly," Cass frowned. "Even if she does get over the programming, she's still in a lot of trouble for what she did. It might almost be better if she never had to feel the guilt."

"I've considered that. Then there's no way she could be…?"

"Useful? She already slipped up and gave away a lot, but under extreme duress. The most I could get for her would be a more humane prison assignment."

"What's available besides Azkaban?" 

Cass got a very sneaky look above a grin.

"Well, this is strictly classified, and I shouldn't even hint this much, but a certain candy-loving friend of ours has been talking to certain short …people who know all about security." Narcissa's eyes went wide. "Know what I mean?"

"That's brilliant!" 

"Beats the Dementeds, now, doesn't it?"

"Demen_tors_."

"Whatever."

************************************************************** 

Hermione finally closed the book, exhausted. If she memorized one more scrap of information, it seemed like her head would explode on the spot. The mild headache that came with the newly blooming ragweed had grown with each progressing hour of studying, until it felt as though Cornish pixies were playing Quidditch between her ears. She stood up to leave the library, then immediately sank back into the chair, dizzy. "Dammit," she mumbled.

"You should perhaps listen to Potter and Weasley, dear," a familiar velvet voice advised. Severus appeared from behind a shelf, looking concerned, with a vial in his hand. "Unless you ease up on these all-nighters, I'm going to lock you in the Room of Requirement for some rest."

"Unless you've brought some useful potion, cut the lecturing."

"Ah, you've got it, then," Severus almost smiled.

"Got what?" Hermione hadn't heard about any illnesses she hadn't already had as a tiny child. 

"It's a fairly simple malady, darling, commonly called the 'Outstanding In Every Subject Pox.'"

"Huh?"

"You have eyestrain, love, on top of seasonal allergies, mental overload and a dangerous lack of sleep." As Hermione blinked, Severus moved closer, tucking the vial into his pocket. "You're coming with me, now." 

"Severus, put me-!"

"No, dear," the professor replied calmly, kicking the library door open as they passed with a thump. "You need some rest, among several other things, and I'm going to see you get them."

Reaching a door, Severus fumbled for the knob before entering. Inside was a long, fat Chesterfield sofa, a small icebox, and weirdly enough, a tabletop full of knobbly implements. 

"Where the sod-?"

"You remember the Room of Requirement." 

"But why?"

"You'll have to be patient, love."

Quite suddenly, Hermione found herself on the fat, soft and admittedly comfortable sofa, her feet up and her head in Severus' lap. He retireved the vial from his pocket, uncorked it with a thumb, and began rubbing something minty-smelling onto her temples.

"What are you-?"

"Just trust me."

Muggles may use aromatherapy, but wizards definitely perfected it, as Hermione discovered. Within just a few minutes of Severus' gentle ministrations, her headache was gone and a peaceful contentment began to spread through her tired form. She honestly hadn't realized how tired she was, until she could relax and…

"Sleep well, darling," Severus whispered, still massaging the minty oil into the pulse points at her collarbones. It was lovely work, and he didn't plan on stopping until he could be certain she was totally asleep. After all, she needed it.

"Professor-?"

He knew that voice. Severus looked up and saw an equally surprised Harry Potter. He also noticed a punching bag had appeared in the Room's corner. 

"Good evening, Potter. What brings you here?"

"Er…I was…" Harry gestured to the bag. "What are you…?"

"Your friend's been pulling all-nighters for a week," he explained. "With the N.E.W.T.s day after tomorrow, I felt she could use some rest."

"That's why I'm here, too," Harry smiled uncomfortably. "If I can't sleep, I'm supposed to come and 'release tension in a healthy way.' Is she…?"

"I think so," Severus observed. "Who started you on the punching bag? Ringo Tyler?" Harry nodded. "Clever fellow. Before you do, though, would you mind helping me get Hermione back to her room? I don't know the password, and I don't want to wake her up…"

"How'd you get her to sleep?" Harry asked. "Did you give her a potion or something-?"

"Nothing that complex. A little peppermint oil on the pulse points and a shoulder massage did it."

"Oh." Harry seemed to accept this, albeit grudgingly. Severus realized he still didn't like the idea of physical contact between them yet.

"Well, any potion that could have overrode the caffiene in her system would put her to sleep for the next week, and not very refreshingly –not to mention talking her into taking one."

"She always has taken studying seriously."

"There's a line between serious and obsessive, don't you think?" Severus absently stroked his girlfriend's hair. "I knew something was really wrong when Cassandra called me in to help."

"Professor Cass called you?"

"She said that Hermione wasn't listening to her or me, but when she heard she was ignoring you and –Weasley, too, it was time to…I believe her phrase was 'haul in the big guns.' She even suggested Muggle sedatives."

"Oh," Harry scratched his head. "Well, I can help you get her up to bed."

"I'd appreciate that."

A Mobilicorpus spell and several corridors later, Harry found himself ushering his least favorite teacher –well, after Umbridge- into the sanctity of the Gryffindor Common Room. Since Snape was a Professor, the girls' staircase didn't collapse for him, and together they managed to get Hermione into her room, still asleep. Rather than undress her, Snape simply transfigured her clothes into some conservative, comfortable pajamas before tucking her in gently.

"Goodnight, dear." 

A strangled sound came from behind him.

"Mr. –Harry?" Snape inquired, using the boy's given name for the first time. Harry's green eyes, curiously, were gentle.

"You really do love her, don't you?"

"Very much."

As Harry and Severus left the girls' dormitories, a light under a door made them pause for a moment. "Which-?"

"It's Ginny's…" Harry let out a heavy sigh as they heard pages turning and a quill scratching. "Not again." Severus drew the vial of peppermint oil from his pocket and handed it to the seventh-year.

"Here." Harry looked at the tiny bottle, astonished. "Temples, behind the ears, and right here on the collarbones. Go to it."

"Thank you, sir."

"Good night."

"Good night."

********************************************************* 


	48. Clouds Gather

Chapter Forty-Eight: Clouds Gather

_From the tacky yellow legal pad of Bellatrix Lestrange:_

            My Master will reward me above all.  
            Gods, I hate this music.  
            That werewolf is (expletives deleted.)  
            My Master will reward my tenacity.  
            I think I'm going to go deaf. That'll show her.  
            Remember to find out what a motorcycle is. Did Sirius have one?   
            Find out what a yellow submarine is.  
            My Master would…probably like this song.  
            Find out where the Hotel California is, and why they stab it with their steely knives, and what 'it' is. Sounds like fun.  
            Bebe Lestrange? Muggles wrote a song about me? …Find out who 'Heart' is.  
            My Master would not be pleased by my reaction to this.  
            This one reminds me of Andromeda, marrying someone her family despised. The guitars are cool.  
            Did I just use the word 'cool'? Shit.  
            What's a jukebox and what are dimes? This kind of music must be rock n' roll.  
            This song is about masochism! Hit me, baby, one more time? Good lord. The Muggles are more interesting than I thought.  
            If that goddamn song about someone letting the dogs out plays again, I will kill myself, and the same for Mambo #5. Evil Yank.  
            'Dude Looks Like a Lady' is about a cross-dresser! …I miss my husband.  
            'Riders on the storm/riders on the storm/into this world we're born/into this world we're thrown/riders on the storm.' I like that one.

******************************************************************** 

Cass paced nervously about the staffroom, as did Severus. Professor McGonagall knitted like a woman possessed, and Sprout thumbed away at a Game Boy as if life, the universe and everything depended on this game of Tetris. Occasionally the beeping would annoy one of the Slytherin professors and Severus would threaten to flay Cass for introducing the toy to her. Cass would then threaten to personally eat Rosie's supply of houndsnip next full moon unless she turned the volume down. It usually took Professor McGonagall's threats of Nifflers in the classrooms to shut the pair of them up.

Professors were always ticky while their students took the N.E.W.T.s.

"Suppose Goyle's going to flunk?" Cass wondered.

"Yours or mine?" Severus finally sat down, wearied with pacing.

"Either."

"Well, he'll definitely flunk yours. Mine he's been studying for."

"Le'me guess –his dad leaned on him about his grades?"

"Exactly. How do you suppose Longbottom's doing?"

"Probably acing mine and Rosie's before graying his hair on yours."

"He'll ace yours?"

"Sevvy, didn't you _see_ his thesis on the Civil War? Longstreet couldn't have written it better."

"I only saw his Antipedius Potion."

"Ah, that. I've been using it for rubber cement." 

"It's supposed to be a cure for athlete's foot."

"I needed the sticky more."

"That's because you wear …those." Severus gestured to Cass's sandals, which looked as though she'd borrowed them from a Roman hoplite and not her brother-in-law. "Doesn't it bother you that any man with a foot fetish could get off on your mere presence?"

"So you can see my ankles. Call a priest." Cass glanced down at Severus' own footwear and had to stifle a squeak. "What the sod are those?"

"Boots."

"And what are the metal things?"

"Spurs."

"Er…why?"

"For riding."

"Only spurs I've seen went like this," Cass gestured at her own foot. 

"You're a Yank. These are English spurs."

"Which still begs the question, why?"

"I intend to go riding this afternoon."

"On…?"

"A horse, you silly American. What do you expect, a thestral?"

"A _winged_ horse?"

"No, just an ordinary horse. Four legs."

"What color?"

"Brown, with a white blaze down his nose and tan footlocks."

"Not …black?" Cass raised an eyebrow. 

"Blackie can't carry two."

_"Blackie?"_ The American tried in vain to stifle giggles. "You've got a horse called _Blackie?"_

"What's so odd? He is."

"I'd expect you to call him, like, Darkness or Ebony…or at least Midnight."

"My cat was called Midnight. And I was only ten when I named him."

"So, what's the brown one with the white nose called?"

"Lord Matthew Morganstern."

"Erm…"

"Morgan for short."

"…_Okay_…what sort of horse is he?"

"Half Clydesdale."

"A mixed-breed horse?"

"Sort of accidental, yes. He's an excellent mount, though. Strong enough to carry three and gentle as a puffskein."

"I didn't know you were the equestrian sort."

"Most people don't. Do you ride?"

"Apart from a carousel, no." Cass grinned. "Can you ride a bike?"

"A what?"

"Didn't think so."

There was a silence, broken only by Professor Sprout's gloating about the third level or something. Finally, Severus asked the question he'd been wondering about.

"Does…you-know-whom ride?"

"No idea. Maybe you could …_teach_ them, though, hint hint?"

"I worry that the teaching in the relationship is unbalanced."

"Well, you can't ride a bike and she can. Borrow the tandem in the Shack's garage and don't forget the helmets. There you go."

"Who's the girl, Severus?" Flitwick inquired. "Teaching her to…_ride?"_

"Filius, you smutty fellow!" Cass exclaimed, arching her eyebrow as well. "She'll have to teach _him_, too." The shorter wizard went scarlet.

"That isn't what I meant!" 

"Mental pictures, eh?" The American yawned. "Teach _you_ to ask questions."

********************************************************************* 

Draco thought hard before answering the third question on the test, 'Why do American Muggles eat chips with ketchup on them?' Just as he was writing down 'Because they put ketchup on everything,' he stopped. He crossed it out. It was a trick question. Americans _didn't _put ketchup on chips, because to them 'chips' meant 'crisps'! Noone could be _that_ disgusting! He wrote down 'Trick question. Americans eat chips with French onion dip on them,' before drawing a little smiley face with it's tongue sticking out, as if to say 'Caught that!'

Drat it all, why was every third question about food? Had Professor Cass been starving when she set the exam? Draco had been too nervous about Potions, which he had first, to eat breakfast, and it was catching up with him. 'What are the chief uses of the Internet, to Muggles?' Draco put down 'checking email, finding directions, answering silly questions that come up in bars, and looking for smut.' The next question dealt with the most acceptable condiments for buffalo wings. Draco knew one was bleu cheese dressing, but the other…Wait! Buffaloes lived on ranches now! Ranch dressing!

Whoever said Muggles weren't sophisticated, confusing people was full of shit.

************************************************************** 

Hermione felt light as a feather, but without any of the nasty avian mites that had quarantined the owlery for most of last month until Hagrid could give them all powder. Drat Crabbe and Goyle sending off for full-color bondage porn from Knockturn Alley with school owls. Some people were so inconsiderate. At least N.E.W.T.s were over and she was free to duck out and see Hagrid about Crookshanks' birthday present –an extra-tall scratching post with little magically flying fake moths that circled the top realistically. He was certain to love it.

Actually, Crookshanks had been something of a naughty cat last night. The memory was enough to send her into a convulsive fit of giggling.

**************************************************************** 

Crookshanks had watched his human and her professor as they calmly worked on six cauldrons of Wolfsbane potion at once –an easy feat only for them. Within moments of completion, Lupin and the five Tylers stepped out of the fireplace and smapled the contents. After a few conversational moments, during which nearly all of the werewolves petted him and remarked on what a pretty cat he was, Crookshanks watched them all depart. 

His human put away the ingredients while the professor human cleaned and put away the cauldrons and equipment. That was usual. His human took off her robes, revealing a particularly silky shirt and a tasteful skirt. Also usual, except that tonight there were no cat hairs on either blouse or skirt. Crookshanks hadn't had a chance to sleep in her drawer this week. The professor human's eyebrows raised in surprise as Crookshanks' pet human literally swept him off his feet. 

_That_ was unusual.

The humans kissed and pawed at each other for some minutes, the professor having neatly landed in his leather desk chair and the student having neatly straddled him. Crookshanks watched with some amusement as the humans struggled with buttons and clasps. Couldn't the silly things learn to grow fur? They seemed to have entirely forgotten he was there, but as the professor human kicked open the door to his chambers, Crookshanks managed to follow them to wherever they were going. This was bound to be more fascinating than Norrie's whining about her pet human's Kwikspell course not going well. The door had scarcely closed behind the lovers and their unnoticed observer before all sense of propriety went straight out the fireplace. Crookshanks watched, amused.

Heavens, his human looked _cold_ that way. Good thing the professor human –oh, yes, _that_ looked much more comfortable.

Why did humans insist on sleeping under the blankety parts of beds? Surely it was more comfortable to curl up on top and –oh, nevermind. These two weren't going to _sleep_.

Good heavens. Humans were learning to grow fur. Doing a rather pathetic job of it, by the looks of things, but they _were_ trying…

'No,' Crookshanks tried to tell them. 'You've got it _entirely_ backwards…you're not even licking first…' He decided to demonstrate the proper method to the poor humans.

"Meow!"

_"Gaaah!"_

"Crookshanks!"

"How the fuck did _he_ get in here?"

"You naughty creature, get off the bed!"

"Mrrroww!"

There was a long silence.

"I don't suppose he's going to tell anyone, m'love."

"He'd _better_ not." Hermione frowned at her familiar. "One 'mew' and its generic kibble for you, mister."

Another silence.

"Is he growling?"

"Severus, haven't you ever heard a cat purr before?"

"But so loudly…you voyeuristic little fuzzball, get your paws off of her!" Crookshanks looked up from where he had been nuzzling his keeper's cheek and let out a querying meow. "Randy beast."

"Darling, ignore the cat." Hermione resumed what Crookshanks thought was a hopelessly backward approach to the business at hand. She was clearly hopeless, but perhaps he could demonstrate proper technique to the male…

_"Get off me, cat!"_

Crookshanks remembered too late the aversion some humans had to being climbed on. As his claws unsheathed into the professor human's shoulders, the pair spun wildly around the room. "Get off!"

Hermione, for all her usual sobriety, was nearly convulsed by the sight of Severus running around the dungeon room with a mewwing, yowling orange cat on his back. The fact that the cat, with his Chudley Cannons collar from Ron, was wearing more than her lover did not help matters. Finally she, too, leapt from the bed, captured her pet, and released him out the door.

"Darling, are you alright?"

"Yes." Severus felt his shoulders and frowned at the blood on his fingertips. Hermione retrieved her wand and mended the wounds, but not before Severus caught sight of her.

"What are you wearing?"

"A bedsheet, why?"

"It looks nice on you." The Slytherin had a decidedly mischievous grin. "How do you look on it?"

***************************************************************** 

Hermione managed to stop giggling as her Yankish professor and Ginny rounded the corner, but just barely. Crookshanks was such a mischievous cat sometimes.

"Keep that orange ball of fluff in your room next time, please, 'Mione?" Cass pulled the collar of her t-shirt askew, revealing scratches to rival Severus' from the inquisitive and ever-helpful tabby's claws. "He seemed to think John and I were…well, he offered advice, if you take my meaning." The youngest Weasley was more blunt:

"I catch him trying to _teach_ Harry an' I again and I'll neuter him."

"I honestly don't know what got into him," Hermione apologized. "You know how cats are…"

"_I_ know how cats are," Professor McGonagall observed, appearing with a stern look on her face. "Exactly _what_ is the matter here?"

The two students hemmed and hawed for a second before Cass, with American lying ability, came to the rescue.

"Remember Crookshanks, Hermione's cat? He got into my rooms last night and was all purry and pawwy –at a _completely_ inopportune time, you see. Hermione'd been …trying to fix our Wolfsbane potions with Sevvy, and he kept interfering there, and then after John and I locked him out, he went after Harry and Ginny."

"We were studying," Ginny explained artlessly.

"Cats can be so dratted curious," Cass remarked. "We were just telling 'Mione off for letting the furball out."

_"Well,"_ the stern deputy Headmistress intoned, "that cat also got into _my_ rooms last night."

Cass had what was either a very small seizure or a very dire attack of the mental pictures at that moment. 

"The poor thing only wanted some tuna fish," Minerva explained. "In the future, I have instructed the house-elves to keep a dish of it outside your door, Hermione. That should forestall any further …_interferences_." The professor then gave them such a knowing look as she left that the poor American nearly died of the squickies.

"Remind me to get some drops for my mind's eye," she gasped.

"My diary's going to have a _nice_ chapter," Ginny remarked sarcastically. _"Ecch."_

"Maybe I should keep him in my room after all."

_"Please!"_

"It's one thing to have the foremost sexual experts of the decade for professors, 'Mione, but not if a cat still thinks he knows better." Ginny frowned.

"He's a fodging _cat!_ They think they know better than everyone!"

"And he did have some clever ideas for the third edition," Cass added, to her companions' horror. "Cats are sensuous creatures."

"Spare me," Ginny replied. "How did N.E.W.T.s go?"

"I think I did alright," Hermione frowned. "I do think I got Jim Morrison and Van Morrison confused on the Yankish test."

"Hey, a student whose name I will _not_ mention confused Katherine and Audrey Hepburn," Cass announced with a look of abject disgust. "I wonder why I try to teach these dunderheads _anything_."

"What a very Severusian remark, m'love," John observed, coming up behind his wife and kissing her on the neck. "I like it when you're snarky."

"Erm…I have to –er…go and grade tests now," Cass explained, going scarlet. "Oh, and Hagrid wanted a word with you, 'Mione. Something about publishing that report you did on avian mite extermination?"

"I promised to meet Harry …for studying," Ginny added.

"Well, I'll see you both later," Hermione waved, understanding full well that spring was in the air at Hogwarts. It was nice to not be the only one with someone to …meet.

As she headed for the side door, she ran into Severus, who was just deducting house points from some little Ravenclaws. After a whispered promise to meet each other later, the pair parted, for longer than they would ever know.

Hermione never made it to Hagrid's that day.

*********************************************************************** 


	49. A Friend's Fury

Chapter Forty-Nine: A Friend's Fury

"There can be no doubt?"

"None," Argus Filch replied, an expression of stern worry on his face. "The Tyler brothers are certain the note is in Peter Pettigrew's handwriting." Minerva frowned. 

"Are they _sure?"_

"We are certain," Smokey announced, striding solemnly into the Deputy Headmistress' office. "The note was written with a magical prosthese hand of Dark origin, which we know Pettigrew possesses by the testimony of several reliables."

"Reliables?"

"Reliable witnesses. We've also performed several identification charms, as well as done quite a few Muggle forensic tests down in Snape's laboratory. There can be no question that the Dark is responsible."

"Alright." The Gryffindor professor sighed. "Argus, would you get Filius and the Tylers in here, as well as Poppy?"

"All four of the others?" Smokey inquired.

"Yes."

"Just checking. You may want to have Madam Pomfrey keep a sedative by for Cassie, though, once she gets back from her errand with the Headmaster." The redhaired Auror scratched his head. "She's railing for Entebbe protocol on the record, but on _or_ off she's loaded for bear."

"Entebbe protocol?" Filch asked.

"The Raid on Entebbe," Minerva explained. "Some Muggle hostages were forcibly retrieved from terrorist captors in the seventies."

"Was that the Americans?"

"Tougher. The Israelis." Smokey frowned. "I'm afraid the United Coventry has already received word of this, as has the President." Argus gasped audibly and Smokey nodded. "Your Minister, to put it quite bluntly, may be in some deep shit soon."

************************************************************ 

"Headmaster, we can't do this. You can't print a word without Ministry approval of the information, and they'll block it because of the panic factor." Penelope Clearwater had chosen the field of journalism over bureaucracy, but even as a quill squeaker her loyalties were in constant question. "I'll write it, but I can't get it into print."

"What happened to freedom of speech? Of the presses?" Cass cried. Dumbledore had brought her along for reasons unknown, but the _Prophet_ reporter got the distinct impression it was for good-cop, bad-cop purposes. If ever there was a loose cannon, it was the American. "Do you mean to tell me that whacko's suppressing it?"

"I'm afraid so," Penelope admitted, looking over the American's shoulder to who had just entered. "Minister Fudge simply won't allow incendiary news like that."

"I certainly won't!" the blustery little bureaucrat announced, stomping in.

"You won't allow the truth to be published, even if it would increase the chances of the hostage being returned safely?" Dumbledore asked, knowing the answer already.

"Not if it will cause a panic!"

_"Then I will!"_ With swift, bold movements, Cass seized a layout print, tore the Quidditch headline off, and swiping Penelope's quill, wrote 'Hermione Granger Kidnapped By Voldemort!' in her own rake-rail printing across the page below the banner. Even as Fudge protested, she shoved it into the press, cast the charm one-handed, and pulled the press bell's rope. Immediately, magic-driven cogs and gears sprung to life. "Extra, extra," she announced sarcastically, as each and every one of the _Prophet_'s owls prepared to depart with the fresh print run. 

"I hereby place you under arrest for direct defiance of the Minister of Magic!"

"Cuff me, Corny," Cass replied, showing Fudge both of her fists, palms inward, with exactly two fingers of her ten pointing heavenward. It should be remarked, to Ms. Clearwater's honor, that the reporter didn't quite restrain a loud guffaw at this display.

"Cornelius Fudge!" a thundering voice announced. Cass Tyler's eyes went wide and she immediately snapped to military attention and saluted. 

The newly elected President of the United Wizards' States of America, together with the Chairperson of the United Coventry, had entered the newsroom. Secret Service Aurors, in robes not unlike Professor Snape's, flanked out and secured the premises as the Chairperson continued:

"I have just heard a direct confession to a war crime," she announced. "Madam President, will you bear witness?"

"I will. Minister Fudge is impuning freedom of the press and endangering a hostage of the enemy."

"Then you are hereby under arrest, by authority of the United Coventry, and placed in the custody of the United States." The willowy blonde Chairperson gestured, and the Aurors closed in on Fudge. "You are also stripped of your post, as Britain is under Aurory Militia rule as of noon today."

"It's eleven-forty-five," the President pointed out with a smirk.

"Close enough." As Fudge was dragged off, the Chairperson stepped closer to Cass, a smile growing on her face. "Lieutenant Tyler, I presume."

"Madam Chairperson."

"At ease, Lieutenant. And you must be Albus Dumbledore." The Chairperson offered a hand to the bearded man. "It's an honor to meet you at last."

"The pleasure is mine, Madam Chairperson."

"Would it be cruel for me to ask you to serve temporarily as Minister of Magic for Great Britain?" the Chairperson asked ingenuously, "just so the President here doesn't have to maintain military rule too long? I'm sure you could still be Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"If you would like, Headmaster, I have my nation's finest on alert for possible Entebbe protocol." The President, an attractive African-American woman with intricately braided hair, smiled wryly and raised an eyebrow at Cass. "I trust that the Aurors already in your service are…behaving themselves?" 

"More or less," Dumbledore replied. "As reticent as I am to lead Britain in its' entirety, I do fear I may have to accept your kind offer, Madam Chairperson."

"You mistake the situation, Minister," the Chairperson explained, smiling sadly. "It was not an offer, but a supplication. The Ministry has all but alienated the United Coventry by their recent actions, and were it not for yourself and Amelia Bones, there might have been some serious hell to pay."

"We were looking at the 1939 Accords going back into effect," the President added.

"Which would mean multi-continental involvement in your war-"

"Not to mention the Muggle misinformation risks-"

"And the bombing threat-"

"You've just ended World War Three by saying 'yeah.'" It was bizarre. The Chairperson and President finished sentences like the Weasley twins. The President gestured to Penelope. "Are you getting all of this? Historical, and all, plus it'll make your career." She was not being sarcastic, and Penelope nodded, frantically splattering a parchment as she took down every word. Cass, meanwhile, was still in military pose.

"Permission to speak."

"Yes, Lieutenant?" the officials repiled in unison.

"Officer requests permission to serve in a Class 219 hostage exchange after parley with the enemy." 

"Position requested?"

"Officer requests permission to exchange oneself."

"Denied. The officer is of too senior rank."

"Madam President, in accordance with Code 72-A16, chapter seven, anyone up to a commander may be offered in a Class 219."

"Lieutenant, you distinguished yourself in the defense of your commanding officer against a surprise attack which dealt you a grievous wound. In recognition of your valor and devotion to your assignment, I am hereby promoting you to the rank of colonel."

_"What?!"_

"It's oak leaves for you, Cassie," the President explained informally with a grin. "Knew you'd get 'em someday."

"You can't do this to me!"

"I could have made you a single-star general for what you did, plus called you home to serve in my Cabinet. In case you haven't been following anything but the Penguins' scores, my Secretary of State just punked out on me."

"I wonder why," Cass retorted bitterly.

"The pro-choice issue and whether cannabis should be legal. Conservative cockhead. How's John doing?"

"He's good." The Yank had the distinct look of being Not Pleased by her promotion and the President leaned over and hugged her.

"Hey, Cassie, don't be so pissed. Congress voted you this one. You deserve it."

"You can still fight Moldy-Voldy, as you so characteristically dubbed the Dark Lord in your last letter," the Chairperson chimed in. "You just can't go swapping yourself for some kid and getting killed during a half-assed injection maneuver."

"_'Some kid' _is capable of almost any Class Twelve potion _without_ texts! She's not only crucial; she's a broken arrow! What kind of a quarter-wit wouldn't trade me for her?"

"You forget that you yourself are a broken arrow if captured, Cassie," the Chairperson reminded, "and not just for Britain. You have military secrets in your head that could cause reverses of every wartime victory from 1945 to 1789."

"I'd love to see Voldemort pry them out!"

"_I _wouldn't. Your Legilimency may be good enough to earn you a Captaincy at sixteen, but you're forgetting you can _barely_ Occlude with _minimal_ emotional pressure tactics, not to mention you have the worst tendency to take _every_ offense to your side so absolutely and _totally_ to heart that you risk yourself and the big picture on senseless moth missions!"

"Are you saying that getting her back is senseless?"

"It's commendable to be brave and even more so to be dedicated, but you can't sweep in like the wrath of God all the time, Cassie," the Chairperson said quietly. "Look what happened in Tennessee." Cass was quiet for a long moment. Her record followed her everywhere. "Now, we will bring her back safely, but we will not risk more than we have to in order to do so."

"Some things are worth risking everything," Cass whispered. "Can you imagine what those bastards are _like_ to their hostages?"

"I know Severus can, Cassandra," Dumbledore cleaned his spectacles with a handkerchief, letting Cass see the brightness of unshed tears in his wise, normally twinkling eyes. "To attempt rescue right now, no matter how cleverly contrived or how boldly executed, would put poor Hermione in more danger than ever. You will not sit idle in this, but you will not cause the Death Eaters to kill their hostage. You know they would."

Finally Cass nodded, silently battling the fury within for a moment before rechanneling it to new energy that set her eyes afire.

"What is my assignment?"

"Protect the students," Dumbledore instructed. "Protect them from Dark wizards and mind control. Teach them to defend themselves, not just from spells, but from lies and bigotry. If they are in danger, rescue them. I ask this most vital task of you, to be your foremost concern, for your loyalty and courage are equal to what I dare not ask another. Will you serve the Order of the Phoenix thus?"

"To even beyond the grave."

"It is no less than I ask of your brother, Cassandra. You will still be fighting hard, even if you are within Hogwarts."

As Cass Tyler accepted her task, she gave no thought as to whether Dumbledore meant Severus or Draco, for she assumed her secret was still just that. In the end, however, it didn't matter, for the defense of the next generation's minds fell to more than one lone werewolf or one black-robed professor. 

The War had truly begun in earnest.

********************************************************* 

"I've never used one."

"Seen one used?" The elder of the two black-haired wizards shook his head, while the younger nodded. John indicated the diagram he had drawn for Severus. "You hold this part and squeeze the trigger to fire it. Harry, you're familiar with firearms?" 

"My cousin had some toy ones, and I've seen them on telly."

"Alright. We'll begin with toy ones, actually." The redhaired werewolf, clad in a black t-shirt that fit tightly and showed his star, opened a cardboard shoebox and drew out three metal pistols, handing one to each of his students. "On my count, squeeze the trigger. Never point it at yourself, Severus. One…"

The professor pointed the gun vaguely at the wall, while the student took careful aim.

"Two…"

The guns were light, clearly not real, with plastic fittings on the grips. In looking down the barrel, Severus knew they would not shoot anything from the solidly capped tube.

"Three!"

_BANG!_

Severus jumped easily a foot into the air. Harry at least had the grace not to laugh at him, though John smiled wryly.

"Cap pistols, Severus. They give a decent impression of the real article's noise. It's just as startling, but much louder, and you can feel the gun kick backward as it fires. Try again, on my count."

Three rings of caps apiece later, John opened a wooden box.

"Feel up to the real thing tonight?" 

"Sure." Harry almost grinned.

"Alright." Severus was petrified.

"These are derringers, very small caliber. Less noise, less kick…kind of a diet gun, but they're still deadly." John motioned his trainees over. "Watch me load it." The front half of the gun seemed to hinge away, and the werewolf slid four tiny bullets into the chambers. "Here. Point them away from your feet, and keep your finger as far from the trigger as you can manage. Good." Harry loaded his easily and snapped the barrel back, but Severus realized his hands were shaking. "Calm down, Sev."

"What will we be shooting at?" To answer Harry's question, John opened a flat cardboard box and pulled out one of his own portraits, life-sized, depicting none other than Voldemort.

"Drawn from Severus' Pensieve image," the werewolf explained. "I got the eyes a bit wrong, but you get the idea."

"It's too good a likeness," Severus protested. "You should offer that to the Aurory, not mark it up with holes." John grinned and indicated the logo on the box:

_'Martin's Copies, While-U-Wait, Open 24 Hours.'_

"I have fifty-eight more Voldemorts in this box, and Cassie has twice that amount."

"What's she using them for?"

"She's teaching some others and brushing up. Once you've got the basics, you'll go to her for advanced marksmanship."

"Professor Cass uses a gun?" Harry looked astonished by this news. John nodded, the familiar look of affection in his eyes.

"She shoots better than most Muggle police, not to mention almost all of the Aurory. Cassie's been armed almost every day since the Yule Ball."

"Even to classes she brings a gun?" Severus was shocked. "Why didn't anyone notice?"

"Would most of the kids here have known what one was?" Cass shut the door behind her with her foot. She threw off her professors' robes and the chambray workshirt underneath, tossing them onto a chair. "This answer your question?"

"I thought one carried them at the hip."

"This is a shoulder harness, so people can't see it as easily."

"What's the other one?" Harry asked, looking at the two black straps that crisscrossed the werewolf's back. By way of reply, Cass drew a fierce-looking knife with a knuckle grip, serrated top and a chisel point. It was one of the most intimidating objects he'd seen since being in Borgin & Burke's as a second-year. 

"You make your point quite vividly, love," John observed wryly, covering the armed hand with his own and kissing her. "No pun intended." For a moment, the pair remained close like that, the female Tyler's iron resolve towards war almost dropping for a second, but after the length of a breath they snapped back to business.

"Derringers?" Cass inquired, sheathing the knife. "You're holding it wrong, Sevvy."

"I thought the fingers went…"

"They do, but you're holding it wrong. I could disarm you in a second flat." Unbuckling her harnesses, Cass pulled on a black Kevlar vest. "Aim at me."

"But what if-?"

"S'bulletproof. Aim at me." Severus obeyed, only to have the gun popped out of his hand with a deft wrist movement. Before he could blink twice, Cass had the gun on him. "Do I make my point? Get a vest on while I unload this. You, too, Harry."

Harry and Severus had just gotten the vests over their heads when four deafening, staccato bangs interrupted them, only as loud as the caps, but still startling. They looked at the portrait of the enemy across the room and saw no change.

"Where were you aiming?" Harry asked. Wordlessly, Cass took down the picture and held it up to the window. The pupils of Voldemort's eyes had been replaced by bullet holes.

"Exactly where I hit."

"How did your marksmanship lesson go?" John asked.

"Ginny's already at multiple target run-bys. She's a natural. Blaise had a nasty ricochet when she missed Moldy-Voldy entirely, but she also had a decent fatality shot in her second clip. Ron's able to hit eight out of ten to the chest and six out of ten to the head. He's good, but Ginny's the best I've seen so far. Oh, and Neville's got nines on both head and chest."

"What caliber?"

"Ron and Neville are on 9mms and Blaise is still using the .5 trainer. Ginny's done three clips on the Remington .38 and one with my forty-five."

"Already?"

"John, the girl is a prodigy. I'm planning to owl Jeffy Feldman and see about a marksman scholarship into Corey Institute. She's _that_ good."

"Ginny?" Harry smiled, despite being a bit surprised. "Cool."

"Don't you have to be pre-Aurory to enter the Institute?" Severus asked. 

"Not if you have a recommendation from the Chairperson of the United Coventry and the President of the Wizarding States themselves, you don't. Ginny'd be great as an international Auror for the UC." Harry looked both confused and impressed by this observation.

"How do you get a recommendation from _them?_" 

"Maureen and Joanne owe me _big_." Cass frowned. 

"Excuse me, but are you referring to the leaders of the free world by their first names?" Severus almost laughed. "Do you know everyone?"

"Not everyone, but I do know them." As Cass unloaded Harry's gun, she smirked. "I know things about those two that'd send the religious right to the ammunition store."

"Were you Aurory school friends or something?"

"Same sorority, plus I bodyguarded for them awhile ago."

"What kinds of things?"

"Well, aside from the whole satin fetish thing, they each have a nasty tendency to-" Severus' eyes were wide.

"Satin fetish? How do you know-?"

"Sevvy, I was their bodyguard." Cass had the smirk of someone who is pointing out something startling to one who is simply not getting it. "They roomed in adjacent suites, surrounded by enough armed wizardry to take out a village, for six months, and not once did they ever sleep separately. Do you _take my meaning?_"

Both of the uninformed males were abjectly shocked.

"The rulers of the free world are lesbians?" 

"And _together_, no less." As Harry and Severus tried to re-hinge their jaws, John grinned mischievously. "Incredibly romantic, don't you think?"

"Rita Skeeter would wet her pants with joy."

"And not just with glee over the exposè, either," Severus added with a shudder. "My dorm used to be close to hers in school."

"No wonder you have nightmares."

"Had," the professor sighed sadly. "They had gone, but…well, Albus is giving me Dreamless Sleep almost forcibly every night."

"You should take some, too, Cassie," John whispered. It was only then that Harry realized the Yank's dark circles were worse than he had ever seen. "It's been almost four days and you haven't slept the night once."

"Well, I'm working harder than before."

"Severus, I'll cut you a deal. You get my wife to sleep and I'll take over Harry's Occlumency." It was the first time John had ever shown anything but total affection, and the other men understood why completely. 

"Deal," Severus agreed over Cass's protesting look. "I'm sorry, but he's right. You don't have a Headmaster meddling in your life, but you do have him."

"Just like you had her." The lean werewolf picked up her own gun and completely, utterly destroyed the target's face in three shots. "We'll get her back safely, Severus. I swear it. Harry, if it weren't for that prophecy, I'd do your job on that ridiculous snake bastard."

There was a long pause as the werewolf's fury ran down. Finally, Harry walked over and picked up the derringer from the table.

"I'd rather you teach me how to do it well."

**************************************************************** 


	50. Longing and Loyalty

Chapter Fifty: Longing and Loyalty

Severus scratched the date off the calendar and picked up his Firewhiskey glass. October sixth had come and gone, just as had the first month of Hogwarts. She had been gone almost five months. He had even gone so far as to risk detection by inquiring as to her whereabouts at a meeting of the Death Eaters, only to get stares and a crack about 'what Gryffindors were good for' from Goyle Senior, accompanied by a lecherous smile that made him wish he was gun-licensed already. 

Not that he could kill with one; Dumbledore had watched some Muggle television to get an idea of guns and almost cancelled their use. It was only with the development of a new, nonlethal bullet that the peaceable old man had relented. A polyresin casing holding a glass capsule of Severus' latest potion had replaced the deliciously lethal lumps of lead the Americans so liberally poured into each other on telly. It was paralytic and acted much like an ordinary poison, except that it rendered the injected unconscious, immobile and basely inanimate for more than three days, so that anyone not knowing the secret of the potion would assume them dead. The glass casing, upon breakage, would cause a minor flesh wound with some bleeding, so that it looked like a bullet, felt like a bullet, and did everything but kill. 

Needless to say, Cassandra didn't care much for them.

The werewolf's classes had transformed from merely forcing the students to think about the inherent hypocrisy of the Death Eaters' propaganda to direct and violent attacks on the theory of pure blood. Draco Malfoy, despite having graduated, was still at Hogwarts, as what Dolores Umbridge termed 'a preventor of bias through apprenticeship.' Draco knew full well he was there to spy on the Americans and did exactly the opposite, reporting every scrap of information he could, whether from the Fudge Ministry or his father's friends. He had also been reprogramming little Death-Eaters-that-were-to-be, taking first-years on broom rides and being an unofficial role model to all who seemed at risk. 

For once, Severus' godson was the moderate in a pair. Cassandra Tyler had caught Vincent Crabbe with a new Dark Mark on the last day of term and challenged him to a duel. She was not a Colonel at twenty-three for nothing. It was only through the intervention of Draco that Crabbe had escaped with his life. This served two purposes: Crabbe was reassured of a loyalty Draco no longer held, and Hagrid was spared cleaning up body parts. 

The werewolf, so furious both at herself for not having prevented Crabbe's joining up and at the whole enemy side in general, went into the Forbidden Forest with her guns and most of the ammunition Dumbledore had vetoed. She returned half-conscious on the back of a centaur, with the promise of the Acromantula colony that no human but a Death Eater would be considered food. Hagrid had later gone in to see what damage had been done to secure this promise and didn't speak to anyone for almost a whole day. The spiders had been terrified so thoroughly that the half-giant made it to Aragog before he saw even one. None of them had been killed, but there were spider legs scattered all around. 

The centaurs, long rivals of the Acromantulas, were actually rather pleased by this and promoted Cass from hound to colt status in the tribe. There had been a ceremony for that, of course, and the werewolf had returned from two days in the Forest quiet, introspectful, and less of a firebrand –so quiet, in fact, that Severus barely heard her enter.

"Sevvy?"

"What is it?"

"An owl, addressed to the two of us." Slowly, as if the strain had aged him to older than Dumbledore, Severus rose from his office chair. Cass, her hands shaking, handed him the note. "Is that Firewhiskey?"

"I thought you had quit-" The werewolf had already drained the glass. "Never mind." Severus looked at the Muggle envelope with a growing sense of dread. "The Grangers?"

"Don't you know the handwriting?"

"No."

"It looks horribly familiar to me." Cass perched on the desk tensely, though a bit relaxed from the Old Ogden's. "Well, open it."

"Why didn't you?"

"You're older."

"Ladies first."

"Higher in rank, head of Slytherin."

"Never a pedagogue before a warrior, Colonel."

"Sevvy, you open that envelope or I'll…" Cass thought for a moment. "Please. I'm a little scared."

"If I must, I must." Severus tore open the envelope and read the short, heaven-sent epistle:

'Slytherins,  
She is in my care. I don't know where we are, but my husband has put me in charge of her. She is well, and will remain so. –N.'

The Potions master, snarkiest and toughest of all professors, handed the note to his coworker, unable to form words. 

"Severus, what is- _oh!"_

"She lives…"

Cass found herself holding her friend a moment later as he sobbed unrestrainedly into her coat. Instead of letting fall tears of joy herself, however, she cuddled Sevvy close, knowing he needed it. John hurried into the room to see what was going on, but a look from his wife assured him the news was good.

"Narcissa?" he asked. Cass nodded, the tears finally coming. "Oh, thank…you know what this means?"

"We don't know where either of them are."

"Yes," John pulled a Machine diagram from his pocket. "But we can find out."

Nine hours later, Cass rose from the office chair and sighed.

"Completely Unplottable. I have a wavelength that shows that they're both alive, but that's about it."

"Couldn't you have searched for Hermione's wavelength earlier, then?" Severus asked sharply. Cass gave him a scowl.

"You need at least two people to lock in a wavelength, and even then I kept picking up Muggles."

"Can't you search by magical powers?"

"Most Muggles nowadays have got enough latent power to show a false positive," John explained sadly. 

"'Aven't you read their stuff about ESP and cell memory and suchlike? It's no joke. Seven times I've gotten a pair of American tourists in a sex-toy shop. Same appearances, ages, everything. Enough to disturb you rotten."

"Well, what can we do?"

"Not much for them, but I did lock in the Death Eaters' nesting place."

"I knew that."

"Only far enough to Apparate there. You couldn't, say, lead an army straight to Voldy's house."

"Shall we?"

"It's too well fortified, be like attacking a tank with pebbles. I've got a better idea. Have you ever been in a Muggle elevator?"

"Well…yes."

"Okay. That's the idea I've got, slightly modified." The mischievous grin had returned. As John looked at his wife, it broke across his face as well.

"I think what she means, Severus," the werewolf explained, "is Radio Free Europe."

"Radio Free Hermione," Cass added. "We can harass to the point that operations are interrupted, as well as reassure the good guys in there that we'll get her out."

"How?" It was a titanic question, but the American answered it with a grin.

"Just leave everything to me, Sevvy. You need to go figure out what's her favorite song."

********************************************************** 

Severus had just found a stack of suitably offensive records –the collected works of Barry Manilow to be exact, for the harassment of the Death Eaters via radio and was carrying them downstairs when he heard the sound. It was unmistakably a woman crying and raving, but which one? 

"First Hermione, now the twins," the poor lady sobbed. "Will this madness never stop?"

"Molly, it's alright. I can have their location for you inside of five minutes." Cass' most reassuring voice did not hide the hint of steel that had entered her tendencies since the first kidnapping. "Besides, isn't it equally likely that they simply went somewhere and haven't called?"

"They would never go two days without at least sending an owl, especially not at a time like this!"

"I agree." Severus set down the records and looked concernedly toward the frightened mother and increasingly tense friend. "Is it possible they decided to launch an attack themselves? That would fit their characters a lot more than disappearing inconsiderately."

"Oh, I don't know, Severus…"

"Cassie, love!" John called from upstairs, stepping down the flight with an unusually merry grin and several people behind him. "Look who's here!"

"Oh, thank heavens-!"

_"Where the hell have you two been?!"_

"Mum!" the two identical entrepreneurs squeaked in unison.

"Didn't expect you here."

"We had just-"

"Well, it's a long story…"

"And you'd better start telling it before we both smack you upside the heads," Cass observed. "Jacquie, Marguerite, what are you doing here?"

"Mrs. Weasley, have you met the St. Just sisters?" John introduced. "They have the potions and ingredients shop in Hogsmeade, the new one."

"Lovely to meet you, dears," Molly greeted, shaking hands with two very nervous, very French potions mistresses, who were, curiously enough, twenty-year-old twins as well, only dark-haired and amber-eyed. "Have you been out and about with my wild sons?"

"That's partly what we were up to, Mum," Fred explained.

"We took your advice," George added to Cass.

"_My_ advice?" The werewolf looked indignant. "I never told you to run off and scare your mother and I into fits."

"No, about the honeymoon spot," George explained, giving Jacquie a look of affection.

"New York City _is_ really romantic." Fred kissed Marguerite on the cheek. Both French sisters looked slightly guilty.

"You see, Mrs. Weasley-"

"Zhe boys were anxious to be married without any threat-"

"An' Volde-more would be so certain to attack a wedding party-"

"We protested, but zhey are _awfully_ cute, you know-"

"We wanted to meet you first, but they simply sprung it on us-"

"An' eet was _so_ romantic!"

Severus watched the scene with utter astonishment. It was only when he realized Cass and John were on the verge of exploding with restrained laughter and relief that he knew it wasn't some extended prank.

"You eloped?" he asked numbly.

"Why, yes, Professor Snape."

"Er…congratulations!" Molly looked at Severus with astonishment equal to his own. "It _is_ awfully romantic."

"Yes…" Fred and George watched as the tears welled up in their mother's eyes, terrified as to what they meant. "Oh, you mischievous darlings! Come give me a hug, and you too, Jacquie and Marguerite. …I have new daughters-in-law!"

"A reception party!" Cass suggested. "Tonight!" The newlyweds beamed.

"I'll call the Weasleys together!" 

"I'll alert the house-elves and order some kind of decadent French dessert!"

"I'll get champagne and Coke!" 

"I'll…go warn Filch." 

Severus couldn't help worrying. A new generation of the most mischievous of Weasleys was a genuinely scary idea…though not all that bad when he considered it. Peeves, at least, would be utterly delighted.

********************************************************* 

The combination of potions resulted in a constant, fitful sleep for the unwilling inhabitant of the squalid little house. Narcissa almost didn't dare try to counter it, as whenever Hermione did awake, she often vomited or fainted again quickly. There was a nutrient potion in lieu of food, another that maintained vitamin balance, another to prevent bedsores…all in all, her prisoner –no, patient, was being drugged out of her senses twenty-four-seven. 

If only she knew where they were or could somehow get more than a carefully indescript owl out to Severus, Narcissa would want the poor girl under Poppy Pomfrey's care. The corkscrewing slash around Hermione's wrist, inflicted by Wormtail's knife during the struggle, was still a deep, angry red, and the blond woman tried with the Muggle salves available to make the mark less painful. She had no magical things to work with, and her wand was failing because of the antimagic warding cuff on her own right wrist. Pettigrew had locked it on himself at Voldemort's demand. Lucius would never have done such a thing.

It had been easier and harder than Narcissa could have imagined to gain care of the girl. It took almost nothing to win over the Dark Lord or his followers, once she had Lucius convinced. Convincing Lucius took only what she had been denying since the Dark Lord rose again. She had gotten him to believe that she still had feelings for him, and they had shared one long, heartstopping and heartbreaking kiss before the carriage came to take her and the prisoner to this secluded place. It hadn't been hard at all, now that she considered it. The only irony was _why_ it hadn't been difficult to fall into her estranged husband's arms and swear faithfulness, affection, love, anything.

Underneath it all, she still did care for him.

If only he could be deprogrammed like Draco or reborn as a spy like Severus. Despite his evil actions, his wrongful ideology, despite everything, he was still Lucius. He was still the blond Quidditch player who had kissed her outside the pitch for luck. She had been a third-year and he a sixth when that happened, and when she asked him why, he could barely answer. The truth was that they had been desperately in love, and were it not for Voldemort, pure blood and the gross insanity of prejudice, they would still be as alight with passion as ever. 

There would also be nearly as many Malfoys as Weasleys if she had her wishes, Narcissa knew. She had always longed for a daughter and a son together, as she had never had a brother of her own except Severus. Draco would be her chivalrous little boy, growing to manhood and learning to run the family while still giving her hugs and asking her advice, while the daughter she never had would become a beautiful young lady. Her brother and father would protect her and Narcissa would teach her everything. It was a pretty dream, but never quite to be. Not quite as such. 

Draco was growing into a man, alright, not a Death Eater. The daughter Narcissa had never had was protecting him, as she her, and together they were redeeming the name of Malfoy from Lucius' crimes. She was beautiful, if nothing like expected, and she was at least beginning to become friends with the mother who would so gladly have accepted her, now that she knew she was. She was a werewolf and an American, with more Lucius in her than anyone but Narcissa could see, but in a better way. Without Voldemort, Lucius would have become very much like her. 

Cassandra Alcott Tyler and Draco Salazar Malfoy were Narcissa's last ties to the good person Lucius had once been, and Severus Snape was the only other family she had left, save Andromeda. Hermione was their friend, and possibly the love of Severus' life as well. In protecting her, she was protecting them, and she would do her duty to the hilt, no matter what it took.

In that respect, at least, she was still loyal.


	51. No Static At All

Chapter Fifty-One: No Static at All

A searing, crazed guitar lick shredded across the darkened sky. As hundreds of radioes across England and the East Coast of America picked it up, people gasped in both horror and glee.

("_Shh!_ It's on!")

("Good lord, what _was_ that?")

_"Good evening, Great Britain!"_

Ginny hugged Harry with delight as he turned the wireless up in the Common Room. Even the first-years were gathered excitedly to listen.

"This is Mel Watling, coming to you live from the studio, WWFB, 96.9 FM, that's Wizarding Wireless Free Britain, the Voice of the War Against Voldemort! Yes, ladies-an'-gentlemen, the nasty ol' snakey's back and up to his old pathetic tricks to take over. Sonofabitch jes' don' know when he's licked."

The first-years grinned and trembled, excited by the profanity just as they were scared by the announcement. It never failed to sting whenever someone reminded them of the situation, but a good cussword went a long way to reassure. The DJ's outrageous semi-Southern dialect concealed her identity very well, even if it did narrow down the list of possible suspects, and many students imitated it. A good many had met her personally long since, but they'd rather admit to not liking Quidditch than turn their professor's friend in to the Ministry.

"With us tonight in the studio is longtime listener and cat fancier, Arabella Figg, with a report on the latest litterbox technology; and reknowned guitarist Donaghan Tremlett of the Weird Sisters, here to tell us the latest on the music scene. But first, the news! Moldy-Voldy still has Hogwarts' student Hermione Granger as hostage, spinelessly admitting that the best person he can swipe is a seventh-year. Donaghan, what do you think of that?"

A John Lennon-esque voice replied angrily:

"Ruddy cowardly of the scaly ol' wanker! Why da'n he try ta' kidnap somebody his own size, the puf'ta scum?!"

_"Arabella, any thoughts?"_

_"Well," _a quiet, ladylike voice observed, _"I do think it says a lot about the Dark Lord that he captured a student rather than say, Cass Tyler. He's probably every inch as scaed of werewolves as he should be of Squibs."_

_"Should be?"_ Tremlett asked.

"Oh, certainly. See, where wizards may lose their standing in the community or a vaultfull of Galleons, a Squib can walk right up to Lucius Malfoy or Greg Goyle and kick him in the nads with a stiletto heel. We've got nothing to lose, so we can hurt them the most, not to mention we're not above using Muggle methods to attack."

"Speaking of Muggles, what do you two think of the Ministry's latest attempt to ban Muggle Studies class at Hogwarts?"

"Oh, it's a cheap shot if evah I saw one. That dykey ol' Umbridge is so ready to crap herself about the Americans, she'll try anything."

_"Now, now, Mr. Tremlett, we can't go saying things like that,"_ the DJ reminded gently. 

_"Sorry, luv."_

_"I mean, what female _or_ male would want to shag the toad? She'd have to be a lesbian by default."_

"I think Muggle technology is necessary. Look at how useful the wireless is to the war effort." 

"Good point, Arabella. That brings us to the first call-in question of the evening: Muggle Technology, Necessity or Hobby? Call us up by fireplace and tell us what you think, right after our next song. And no, we don't censor like the Ministry! Here's Arucard Dunsany and the Cauldron-Born!"

As soon as the first-, second-, and third-years finished dancing about and singing along with the older kids, they all settled down to hear the callers. 

"Okay, first in the fireplace we have –drumroll, please?" There was a tacky sound-effect drumroll. "Dolores Umbridge of the Ministry! Talk to me, Lorry, tell me all about it!"

"I think it's horrible that you're corrupting Britain's youth this way! How dare you second-guess the Ministry's opinion on Muggle technology? These treasonous thoughts are just what let You-Know-Who come back!"

_"Erm…okay, luv, but wasn't it the Ministry who disavowed Voldemort's return for close on a year, even though Harry Potter had the proof as early as 1991 that he was making a try for it?"_ Donaghan Tremlett was a very well-informed rock n'roll sex god, you had to give him that. _"And what's treasonous about saying you lot are ineffective bureaucratic cockheads? You are!"_

"Now, Donnie, mate, don't be so argumentative. Ms. Umbridge, why did you close the Sticky Lick?"

"Homosexuality is immoral! It's this kind of loose behavior that makes the Dark stronger!"

_"Bullshit."_

"Donaghan! Then explain, Ms. Umbridge, why the Death Eaters are such an openly anti-gay, homophobic community? You're actually promoting Voldemort's dogma by agreeing with these hatemongers. And what's immoral about two people in a loving, committed relationship?" 

_"It's wrong!"_

_"Why? Tell me that."_ There was a few seconds of dead air, before the sound of Mel and Tremlett snorting was heard. _"It seems that Ms. Umbridge has hung up on us."_

"No cockin' wonder."

_"On that note, I'd like to turn the show over to Ms. Figg for a moment, for tonight's Muggle Music Headliner. What've we got, Arabella?"_

_"Tonight's Muggle Music Headliner is the Beatles' classic, 'All You Need Is Love,' written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. It's an excellent reminder of what can_ really _help win this war."_

_"Here you are, Britain. The Beatles!"  
_Even as the other Gryffindors sang and passed butterbeers around, Harry leaned over to Ginny.

"She's right, you know." The first-years barely noticed them kissing as the song ended.

********************************************************** 

"Mel, darling, that was _electric_." Cass pulled her fingerless gloves off and tossed her coat onto an armchair. "I particularly liked the segment where the dishy rock star and the cat lady discussed the Ministry's Top Ten Fuckups for the week. They were even better than last time."

"What about the advertising?"

"That was darling." 

"It was awfully sweet of Fred an' George to buy airtime for their wives' shop, but even more so when we found out Jacquie and Marguerite had done the same for Wheezes Hogsmeade's autumn sale. It's so romantic and all… could we continue their contract indefinitely?" 

"If they'll send over more sound effects stuff, why not give 'em their airtime free?"

"Well, we do need _some_ funding, you know." Mel frowned. "I accidentally shorted the C amp during Donaghan's live number."

"No problem. We have plenty of backing. Just write down how much you need and owl it to Clipring at Gringotts Cairo."

Mel grinned only slightly.

"And where is this mysterious cashflow coming from?"

"Why would you want to know a thing like that?" Cass replied absently. "Do we need new fuses already? Teach me to use copper wire."

"Lady Cat, you're keeping secrets from me." Mel knew the werewolf's fanficker name would throw her off at least a bit.

"Speaking of, have you read that new Lord of the Rings parody from what's-her-name? The one where Gandalf has a mid-life crisis and changes his name to G-dawg?"

"Cass, why don't you just tell me –_G-dawg?"_

"I kid you not, pal. There's also a whole messload of marijuana references, so if you get confused, watch a Cheech and Chong movie."

"Who wrote it? Livingdeadgirl67?"

"I think. I also liked the one where the elves are all glam-rock and the hobbits go punk. _Too_ funny."

Sometimes fanfiction writers were _too_ easy to distract.

*************************************************************** 

It was weird, waking up from a haze, like walking through London fog into the glowing lights of a familiar storefront. She could dimly see light, vaguely hear music and almost touch the sheets below her fingers. Hermione slowly became conscious of a blond lady, taller than her mother, who was wearing a beautiful Renaissance-style gown and playing some very anachronistic air guitar to what sounded like…good lord. The Beatles? She must be at her aunt's, or…

"An' that was the Beatles, with 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer,' from their hit album-" 

'Abbey Road,' Hermione thought. 'Third track on the first side. Paul is barefoot on the cover.' The radio voice continued:

"Wish we had a few Silver Hammers in the hands of our crazy Americans here at Hogwarts, wouldn't you say, Professor?"

"Who told you we don't, already?" 

Cass on the radio? This was just…weird. And where was she, anyway?

"If you're just tuning in, this is WWFB, 96.9 FM, the Voice of the War Against Voldemort, Wizarding Wireless Free Britain and I am Mel Watling, bringing you rock and resistance to tyranny. Our guests tonight are Professor Cass Tyler of Hogwarts, with a segment on how to protect your youngest children from the lure of the Death Eaters; as well as acclaimed authors Cat and Wolfe Allegheny, whose sex guide has broken all wizarding bestseller records since Miranda Goshawk's magic curriculum hit the shelves."

(WWFB was having a slow night and doubling up on guests. Cass covered her dual role by giving 'Cat Allegheny' the thickest Irish brogue possible. She sounded only vaguely like the leprechaun who advertised cereal and was doing a splendid job of arguing with herself while John pretended to be Scottish. The videotapes of that particular edition of _WWFB At Eight _showed Mel Watling trying desperately not to wet herself.)

_"So, Professor, did your students give you a list of songs they wanted you to play?"_

_"What?"_

_"You're our Guest DJ."_

_"Oh, right. I was just leafing through this…book…"_ She abruptly switched mikes and dialects. _"Are y'after bein' fascinated by somethin'?"_ In her own voice: _"Is that even possible?"_ Irish: _"Y' bet y're Yankee boots. Just try to stretch y're legs a bit first, or you'll get one sod of a-"_

_"Okay! I'm sure our listeners get the idea!"_ The airwaves concealed a hearty snort as Mel chortled into her sleeve. _"What song do you have in mind?"_

"Well, a few of my students did ask me to play songs for the ones they've got crushes on, but I think this request is the most heartfelt. From a loyal wizard to his heart's enchantress, with much love and wishes for her return."

Hermione had never heard anything by Styx before. The lyrics were heartfelt, there was passion in the guitar and the electric keyboards, and she felt the familiarity of the emotion, but the potions left her too hazy to really consider it. The song made Narcissa cry. She knew full well who was sending it, as she was familiar with a certain black-haired classmate of hers' fondness for arena rock. She didn't know to whom, but she had a few guesses.

'You're my lady of the morning  
Love shines in your eyes  
Sparkling clear and lovely  
You're my lady…'

Hermione fell asleep in spite of the drums and guitars, but with one difference. She felt safe, for the first time since this weird waking dream began. Narcissa noticed she had stirred only as she was going back under, and as she tucked her charge back in, she realized something. Severus wouldn't fancy Nymphadora Tonks or Mel Watling. Tonks was too Gryffindor, too wild, and Mel was too mysterious and Muggle-fied. It had to be Hermione. Why else would he be longing for her return? He wasn't just concerned about his student, the two were lovers! How astonishing! 

She'd lay odds as to who had a hand in arranging it and making certain the affection grew. John Tyler was perceptive enough to notice the seeds of love, and Cassandra was mischievous enough to water them. Now that she considered it, it was a perfect match. She didn't know the unconscious girl before her very well, but she knew Severus, and she knew he wouldn't even look at someone not brilliant. The Granger girl was extraordinarily bright, enough for Lucius to consider her for the-

Oh, holy crap! 

She had to get the girl out of there, and fast!

********************************************************************* 


	52. Reminds Me Of

Chapter Fifty-Two: Reminds Me Of…

"Draco, what the fuck?" Draco heard the professor and took his headphones off. The sight startled him.

"Speak for yourself, per'fessor. What happened?" Sighing slightly, Cass set down her guns and pulled off the coat she wore. Blood had colored the sleeve of her t-shirt and Draco hurried to her side. "Good lord!"

"Aw, piss off. It just grazed me." Draco began rolling up the sleeve to inspect the wound.

"A bullet?"

"A dagger. No big deal."

"Get your shirt off."

"Up yours."

"I'm not kidding, Yankee. Either you get it off yourself or I'm tearing off the sleeve." Draco tried to make his voice as stern as his godfather and evidently succeeded, for Cass glared and pulled the garment over her head. As the sleeve brushed the gash on her shoulder, she winced slightly. Draco noticed and kept up his authoritarian approach. "No big deal, my foot. You've just missed the artery. What goes on that you let yourself get cut up like this?"

"Did you just completely _miss_ your classmate's getting kidnapped? Voldemort coming back? The Ministry being more full of shit than a rhino colon? Were you under a rock, Malfoy?"

"Well, the Ministry's always been full of shit, but you don't see me coming home to bleed on the linoleum." The blond boy sighed at the professor's arm, which was going to need a couple of spells. "Not that I wouldn't fight if Dumbledore would let me off the grounds, but must you always get hurt?"

"I don't _always_ get hurt."

"The Macnair raid you got hexed, then at Nott's you got a black eye, and now your arm's all slashed. Where was it tonight?"

"Where do you think?"

"Honestagod, Cass, lay off Pettigrew. My- …Lucius has him protected too well."

"I was after Hermione, thank you, but that Russian-sounding fellow met up with me."

"And slashed your arm to hell?"

"During a very impolite and uneven match, let me tell you." The room was very dark, lit only by computer screens, but Draco could see his friend's wry smile.

"Did you kill him?"

"With these crap pseudo-bullets? If only! I shot him and Portkeyed his comatose Death Eater ass straight to the holding pen, but not before your- …Malfoy saw him 'dead'. One more guinea pig for the Confession Extraction Box."

"Speaking of, Bellatrix Lestrange has demanded more legal pads and another bottle of ink. You may have inspired her to write novels instead of doing Dark magic with all your rock n' roll."

"So the literary community can hate her guts as well. How poetic."

"That reminds me. What is a songfic?"

"When you write a story based around an existing song. Why?"

Draco actually managed to look guilty.

"I've been releasing my tension on your computer."

"Good lord. Been reading the smutty stuff out there in Cyberland?"

"Er…writing it, too. I have a three-chapter Lord of the Rings story that's finished, and one work in progress. What's a Mary Sue?"

"Any OC who your readers feel is cliché'd."

"OC?"

"Original character, twit. You can't just throw in a strikingly pretty female hobbit who wants to help Frodo and Company without giving the girl some flaws or at least a sense of humanity."

"Don't you mean hobbitity?" Draco inquired wryly. "Mine is just an extra girl-elf with hot pants for Legolas."

"Jeez. Anything wrong with her?"

"_Apart_ from being randy as a goat?" 

Cass sighed theatrically and began to lecture, oblivious to the sting as Draco methodically healed her wound.

"Does the pointy-eared skank have anything she's bad at? Is she stunningly pretty or more expectable? Why does she fancy Legolas? She can't be like every other 'extra girl-elf with hot pants for Legolas,' and let me tell you, there have been several." 

"She isn't a very good shot, but not a bad one, has brownish hair and a squint, freckles, and she fancies Legolas because he's cute in her opinion and famous, not to mention he actually noticed her. I sort of based her on Moaning Myrtle, actually, only non-transparent."

"What'd you name her?"

"Illonwen. Is that okay?"

"Crap, Draco! You can't just swipe Welsh names for the elves, even if the entire goddamn language _is_ spelled like a bad hand of Scrabble on Dyslexics' Night. It works, but just barely." The professor abruptly realized she was standing about lecturing in her bra and grabbed a blanket from the chair. "What sort of reviews'd you get so far?"

"Mostly pretty good, but one person called my girl-elf a Mary Sue. I wondered why, but now that I know what one is, I'm a little ticked."

"Well, you can't please everyone. Try giving what's-her-head a few strictly humor scenes or a good reason to be involved with the Fellowship."

"Like…?"

"Oh, I don't know…have her do the cooking. It can be a joke: 'after two of Strider's venison-based breakfasts and Merry's stolen-veggie stew, the hobbits no longer liked the idea of five meals a day.' I can't see any of the guys being decent at fixing meals, except maybe Gimli. He has kind of a Paul Prudhomme vibe going."

"What if Gimli secretly loves to cook?" Draco suggested. "The Gourmet of Moria."

"Sounds like a great one-shot, but if you run too far, it'll become the Shire's Top Fifty Recipes."

"The Rivendell Cookbook."

"On about Tolkien again?" John asked, coming down the steps with a box of books. 

"The usual fanfickery," Cass explained. As John bent over to kiss his wife hello, he noticed her unusual attire –or lack thereof. Instead of getting jealous or confused, however, he picked up the bloodstained t-shirt with a free hand and tossed it toward the laundry heap.

"Did you get cut again, dear?"

"I've just finished mending a dagger wound on her shoulder. How's it look?" John looked at the patch of skin Draco indicated, smiled mischievously, and set down the box.

"Delicious." 

To Draco's slight chagrin, the werewolf began kissing up Cass' arm to her neck before resuming the pair's seemingly favorite activity. Cripes. How often could two people kiss without getting bored by it? As discreetly as he could, Draco slipped out the front door and headed for his room in the Slytherin dungeon. He was beginning to feel the effects of noone to date since his induction to the Light. The Slytherin chippies were off-limits by his own decision, as he wanted nothing less than questions about his loyalties from Mrs. Malfoy-wanna-bes with braces on their brains, and the other houses had to still think him Dark for his cover to stick. 

Since graduation, too, he had lost interest in the student body. Potter and Ginny Weasley were still head-over-heels with each other, but Draco wasn't quite keen on meeting a seventh-year in an empty classroom and getting caught. Severus called it the onset of maturity. Draco called it distraction. It seemed so pointless to chase girls when the entire wizarding world was at war, and himself a spy, no less. True, he was being made to wait, as were many others, and the typing on the Tylers' old Compaq passed the time. So did reprogramming other Slytherins, and that actually did some good. Flirting did not, unless…

An idea flicked into his head.

******************************************************** 

"Hey, Mel!" Tonks hurried to catch up with the Professor's friend, despite the pile of books in her arms. She wasn't slowing down, but Tonks was determined to chat with her. "Really great show last night. I loved your joke about Fudge and the hooker."

"Oh, thanks. A fifth-year sent that one in."  Melanie Watling, despite her usual affability, always seemed distracted in Tonks' presence.

"I was wondering…who requested the Styx song the other night?"

"Er…jes' some guy, I guess. You'd have to ask Cass to find out for sure."

"I was afraid o' that," Tonks observed, shrugging. "Say, when did you two meet, anyway? School together in America?"

"Naw. We're just…we're old mates. See you in a bit!"

As Mel pulled the door shut behind her, something occurred to Tonks, who for all her rock n' roll and punk accoutrements was not an Auror for nothing. 

Why would a Southern American say 'see you in a bit'? Wouldn't 'see y'all later' or even 'see _you_ later' be more typical? For that matter, what American referred to mates as 'mates' instead of 'friends'?

And how did she know where the prefects' bathroom was? Cass Tyler didn't, or why would she have gone downstairs to get shampoo for the kids in Professor McGonagall's class after they converted dandruff to vanilla sprinkles by accident?

Melanie Watling was not American. She almost _had_ to be a former Hogwarts student, but whom?

************************************************************* 

"And I use it how?"

"Cassandra, you know how to use a Pensieve as well as I. It's standard in all Auror training." Remus was astonished to see the werewolf stick out her tongue at him. "Is that really ladylike where you come from?"

"Neither is kicking you in the balls, but I'll do that too, if it comes to it."

"Cassandra, Albus himself requested it."

"Requested or _suggested_? I don't need anyone else messing with me, thank you _very_ much."

"You have to let out this tension somewhere," a stern, familiar voice observed. "Shooting at pictures of Voldemort isn't helping you put this aside."

"I don't want to put it aside, Severus!" Cass raged. "We are at war!"

"And if you don't learn to relax and get some rest sometime, Mrs. Tyler, you will be off the mission and back in America faster than you can say 'stress disorder,'" Madam Pomfrey added. "Your blood pressure has gone up over thirty-five points in less than a month. You will kill yourself."

"So I've had the flu this week. Big deal. So has most of Ravenclaw." Quite suddenly, mid-rant, in fact, Cass was seized by what looked like nausea. "S'cuse me a sec."

Remus and Poppy were shocked by what sounded like the Professor vomiting into an office wastebin behind the door, but Severus quite abruptly smiled and fetched a few potion vials from his shelf. As Cass emerged, looking sick, he combined two into a goblet and offered it to her.

"Drink." She did. "Spit into this." He held out a bowl of the third potion.

"Why?"

"Because I'm your Head of House. Do it." Grudgingly and with a peculiar delicacy, the Professor spat into the bowl. "Good girl. Sit down and drink this tea."

"Bark," she replied sarcastically, even as she accepted the teacup. 

"Remus, Poppy, I wouldn't worry about Cassandra for now. I can take care of things." Remus sighed relievedly, but Poppy looked unconvinced. Severus raised an eyebrow at her. "Trust me." As if he had flicked a switch, the mediwitch smiled.

"See you at the game, Severus."

With the two other Order members gone, Severus began mixing the potion Cass had sipped with the one she had spat into. The werewolf watched him quizzically, but he said nothing for several minutes.

"You're not using your Jedi-Potions-Master mind tricks on me, Sevvy. I'm not touching that Pensieve thing."

"Why?" he asked briefly, still stirring.

"Because they have a nasty habit of falling into the wrong hands, for instance! Harry Potter has a _disastrous_ record of stumbling into them, as I recall. Nope. No brain colander for _this_ wolfie."

"What about for a new 'wolfie'?"

"Huh?"

"Say, for posterity. The next generation of Tyler werewolves."

"Next generation?" Cass actually snorted. "Come on. Ringo's only seventeen and interested more in Aurory than parenthood, Smokey's girlfriend is afraid of papercuts, let alone pregnancy, I think Paul may actually be gay, and-"

"Actually, that's not entirely accurate." Completely missing Severus' mysterious smile, Cass let out a chortle.

"What? Because Ringo's been flirting with Blaise Zabini? Just because she's a bit of a temptress doesn't mean she can't operate a condom, pal."

"No." Severus bit his lip to remove the mental picture and moved closer to his friend, placing a hand on her stomach gently. "Actually, _that_ is the next generation of Tyler werewolves." 

Cass looked at him as if he were patently insane.

_"What?"_

"Oh, come on, Cassandra, you had a flu shot last year, not to mention you haven't even been near the sick Ravenclaws. You're going to have a baby, sometime next June." Severus couldn't restrain a Dumbledorean twinkly smile. "Would you like to know what kind?"

"Kind?" Cass looked numbly at the professor. "Wolf or human?"

"Oh, no, the child will definitely be a werewolf. That's a given from parentage. I meant would you like to know boy or girl?"

"You know that?"

"The second potion told me. Are you interested in knowing?"

A dark shadow crossed the younger professor's face.

"No. That way it won't be so painful when I lose this one. In fact, would you mind Obliviating-"

Severus swept his friend into his arms before she could protest. As tears streaked down her face, he smiled and explained:

"You won't. That was the first potion." 

There was a long silence before Severus abruptly realized the littler professor was shaking, and not with sobs.

"Sevvy, I can't possibly have a kid." Her tone was laughing, in kind of a hysterical way, but calmer than before. "Can you imagine _me_ a parent? Cripes, Sev, I can scarcely teach a class."

"I can see you and John in twelve years' time, watching the Sorting Hat ponder your child, both nervously and proudly." Cass smiled.

"With Hermione by your side, wearing a Snugli full of baby Granger-Snape."

"Are you mad?" Severus considered this idea and found it, oddly enough, to his liking. "Or perhaps with a Granger-Snape godchild riding on John's shoulders, and a second or third Tyler on my lap."

"Three?" Cass looked scandalized. "Isn't one enough? Only mad people have more than two children or less than four. Three is a horrid number."

"Gods smite me for asking, but why?"

"You have an oldest to bitch about never being the baby and having to be the big kid, the middle to bitch about being the baby for too short a time and having to be a big kid, and the baby to bitch about never being a big kid. It's the most positively godawful amount for children."

"And two?"

"Only two kids is nothing."

"And four?"

"The oldest is too busy to bitch and the baby is too busy being dressed up as a cat by the two middles."

"You are quite insane. I always thought three children the ideal number."

"You can't tolerate twenty, Sevvy dear. Three will kill you."

"What set of three were you acquainted with?"

"The next-door neighbors growing up. Separately or in pairs they were dear, as a clan, quite mad."

"Your school friends?"

"Crap, no. I had to babysit the lot, a four-year-old, a two and an infant. It was abject madness."

"But one baby is acceptable to your mind?"

"One at a time, they're darling. It's only in trios that they become unholy, if they aren't triplets."

"Any preference for the type?

"Well, I suppose a boy would be fun, and I think John really wants a girl."

"And you?" Cass appeared to think.

"You're dying to tell me, aren't you?"

"Shall I call John in and tell you both?"

"Actually, I'd like it if you'd just tell him. Call it superstition, or intuition, or whatever." Severus nodded agreeably and Cass smirked. "And if it's a boy, I'll name him Severus."

_"You wouldn't!"_

"When did you get nicer, Sevvy? The students used to complain to me about you every day. And it's been months since you've threatened to throw me a tennis ball."

"May I blame stress?" the elder professor sighed. Cass suddenly smiled and kissed Severus on the cheek.

"It's a question of thank, not blame, and I know who's responsible. Don't think this whole parenting thing is going to slow me down finding her, either."

****************************************************** 

The Filius Replicatus was a dirty charm, alright. Narcissa almost threw down the fat book she had been leafing through, tracing Lucius' bookmarks to discover his intentions. The signs all pointed to her worst fear: Voldemort wanted to turn Hermione Granger into his heir, and more than that. There was only one snag in the Dark plan, but it was a large enough one for Narcissa to pin her hopes on.

Hermione would be nineteen in a few months.

The Time-Turner had increased the girl's age, but even without it, she would be too old for the charm to have much effect. The ideal candidate was someone very young, the younger the better, in fact, and anyone over five was really quite useless. To cast Filius Replicatus on Hermione would actually be counter-productive; giving her all Voldemort's power and none of his intentions. Her best friend's lover –and therefore _her_ friend- was safe. She must be a mere hostage, perhaps an answer to Bellatrix' captivity in the hands of the Light.

Wait. Hadn't Cass Tyler offered an exchange over the radio and in the papers? She _had_, and quite bombastically, too, with a cover photograph by Colin Creevey showing Bellatrix in handcuffs and the werewolf grinning almost as psychotically as her prisoner glared. Voldemort had scorned the switch of Hermione for Bellatrix, even though the Dark witch was far more valuable than the barely-qualified Mudblood one. There had to be some reason…

Narcissa's charge stirred slightly.

"Hermione? Are you awake?"

There was a short, pain-filled cry.

"Please, dear, you've got to wake up. Do you know where you are?"

The girl slumped back against the bed, as unconscious as before. Narcissa almost swore in disappointment and touched her patient's forehead. Warm, but not feverish. Why was she sweating so? And why was she losing weight? With no exercise and practically constant nutrition, she should be gaining it. Maybe it was all of the vomiting in the past few weeks-

Narcissa Malfoy, for once, didn't know a swearword strong enough. 

It made perfect sense. Voldemort didn't want a full Mudblood, but a half would be ideal. A brilliant mother, a father who had wet his feet in the Dark…

Good lord. 

After a few dumbstruck moments, however, Narcissa began to shake with hysterical laughter. Severus… oh, _dear_. _What_ would Dumbledore say? And McGonagall… oh, _that_ was positively killing…Wait, what about the wards on the school? Oh, dear, that was even worse. If students behaved anything like they had in her day, Hogwarts would be through the ears with unexpected babies soon…

Oh, that was _really_ hilarious.

No, it wasn't.

Narcissa's giggles subsided into sobs. She was the only one who knew what was going on, and she couldn't eve use a wand without…

Oh. Wait.

The anti-magic cuff on her wrist burned like fire as she cast the spell. Just before the guards came stomping in to confiscate the wand, Narcissa got the information she needed. Six months along…that meant January. Even as Greg Goyle senior shouted epithets, the blond aristocrat smiled serenely. She had four months of time that she hadn't counted on. Four months to work on Lucius. 

It was, to use Bella's term, smoldering temptress time.

************************************************************ 


	53. Another Invisible Title! Jeez!

Chapter Fifty-Three: 

"Astonishing," Lucius observed, setting the brandy glass down on his desk. "I expected you to notice that _weeks_ ago." Narcissa concealed her surprise at his calm reaction. "Honestly, why else would we incapacitate a hostage so totally? And surely you didn't miss the pregnancy showing…Draco tells me the girl _is_ on the slender side." Narcissa let her cheeks redden slightly, trusting her husband's bravado to explain things for her. "Or have you got her up to the shoulders in blankets out at the Hollow?"

"It's freezing there and you know it. I've had three sweaters on." The look of sullen sheepishness covered Narcissa's delight at hearing her prison named. Godric's Hollow! Of course! "Has it occurred to you that those downers and nutrition-drinks you've got her on might be bad for the kid, not to mention liable to kill her?"

"Actually, I've guaranteed they aren't. The potions are prepared from Severus' own notes."

"And how did you get Severus into this?"

"I didn't." Lucius smirked coldly. "It was impossibly simple, my love, considering that many of the same potions were in use during _your_ pregnancy. His notes on the Tyler bint's Wolfsbane supplied the other two. To put it as bluntly as imaginable, Narcissa, I'm a plagiarist."

"In addition to your other little idiosyncrasies, I can't feign surprise," the blonde observed smoothly. "How about a spy? Heaven only knows what that mad wolf is doing to Bellatrix."

"You're worried?" Lucius' face almost softened as Narcissa mentioned her sister. "That werewolf is under Dumbledore's thumb. She couldn't-"

"And she is also working in close quarter with Severus. His loyalty isn't as cemented as before. He may slide. I think you need to get a pair of eyes in closer to both of them."

"I have, darling." Lucius's smile was, for once, more affectionate than leering. "Our son."

"How poetic," a cold voice hissed from the doorway. "Sending your son and heir to keep an eye on your right-hand man to make certain your-ill-concieved bastard doesn't corrupt him. Nice."

Lord Andrew Catesby was, to put it mildly, not a nice person.

"It's nearly as sentimental as forcing your youngest child to marry her rapist," Narcissa spat back. "Really, one wonders why pure blood is becoming as passè as your robes."

"Maria is my only daughter. The line had to be continued."

"Oh, truly, considering your eldest left home for god-knows-where and your son married Muggleborn. Have you a reason for giving my house-elves more work than usual in disinfecting the place?"

"I sought the aid of your husband, Lady Malfoy, not some garrulous jibes from you," Andrew snarled. "It is hardly astonishing that the Tyler bastard is, considering your dubious charms no longer outmatch that poniard you possess in place of a tongue."

"Insult my wife again and you will find yourself defecating from a bifurcate orifice, Andrew."  ('Dear gods,' Narcissa thought, 'he's still got such a _sexy_ voice…') "Speak your plea and then depart."

"My manor was raided last night, and not by the Ministry. Only my closest friends knew the entrance that was used."

"Are you accusing me or my household?"

"Lucius, only you, my wife, Nott, and Bellatrix knew the way inside."

"Under the third oak to the left in the second row of your orchard?" Narcissa inquired sweetly, relishing Andrew's glare of shock. "More people knew than you think."

"And considering my wife was busy at the time of the raid, I believe you had better look elsewhere for a body in which to plant a stake." 

"I know whom I seek," Andrew hissed. "It is Elena."

"She's likely been dead for years." Lucius smiled amusedly. "How long could a witch survive without a wand among Muggles?"

************************************************************ 

"Mel, when did you graduate?" Tonks inquired.

"I didn't."

"Oh. Well, where did you go to school?"

"Is your hair violet today?" the radio announcer asked, squinting.

"Yeah…the blue was getting a bit dull."

"Looks nice. Are you going to the movies tonight?" 

"You bet. Cass promised me I could make popcorn."

"What are you seeing?"

"Something with Kathleen Turner. Are you going along?"

"I d'know, I've got some paperwork to do." Mel grinned. "I did make the arrangements, though."

It should perhaps be mentioned that 'movies' was a code word, and not the only one.

************************************************************ 

Severus had rehearsed his lines and the 'choreography' to the point where he woke up mumbling what he was supposed to say. He would have his secret 'prop' under his robes, just in case, and a Tyler brother –not sure which- was taping a wire to his arm.

"Now the mike picks up everything, and the-"

"Tyler, I'm aware of how these devices work. Your sister-in-law's been making me watch James Bond movies all week." The werewolf pushed back his black hood, revealing shocky hair that was browner than John's and lighter than Smokey's. Ringo.

"Okay, but what does the toe-button do?"

"The what?"

"Cassie added it half an hour ago. Did you not get the memo, so to speak?" As the youngest brother smirked, Severus sighed.

"Alright, Ringo, tell me what it does."

"See for yourself. Curl your toes and press down on the sole of your shoe with your middle one." Severus complied. A blade shot out, turning his black boot into a sort of foot-dagger.

"Why?"

"In case you have to kick somebody in the balls," a sardonic voice replied. Severus looked over his shoulder, only to meet with a hideous sight: Cass had a rapidly darkening black eye, assorted gashes about the face, and what looked like a nasty head wound running blood down her neck. "I was going to put one in your other boot, too, but there wasn't time."

"Sweet peace, Cassandra, what _happened_ to you?"

"Oh, nothing, actually. S'part of the costume. Lick." Cass got some of the blood on her fingertip and held it near Severus' tongue. He licked, then stared.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Strawberry jelly? No. But that is one of the main ingredients of this particular variety of fake blood. The only problem is that I keep eating it." The werewolf licked her artfully 'bloodied' knuckles and smiled. "Had the worst craving for strawberries lately, Sev, why do you suppose that is?"

"Likely nerves," Ringo suggested absently, missing the knowing glances passing between his sister-in-law and Severus. They had decided to keep the secret until after the mission. "I always find myself wanting a turkey sandwich before combat."

"Dobby has Per'fessor Cassie's food!" The house-elf appeared with a tray that seemed nearly twice his size. "Turkey sandwich and crisps, double Reuben on rye with extra mustard, dish of strawberries, and steak with onions."

"Cass, you remembered?" Ringo was amazed. "Dobby, does that turkey sandwich have pickle relish and mayonnaise?"

"No…Dobby was told to use Miracle Whip."

"You sainted elf! I didn't think you could get it in this country!" Ringo picked up the sandwich and took an ecstatic bite as the house-elf scampered off. "Ahhh…"

"In the name of Merlin, don't do a Meg Ryan right here and now…" Cass began delicately nibbling the strawberries. "Here, Sevvy, get your steak. And you _can't_ get Miracle Whip in this country unless you know someone."

"Let me guess, the mysterious Melanie Watling?" Severus smiled, cutting off and taking a bite of steak. "She seems so familiar…"

"Why, have you been watching Julia Roberts movies, too?" Ringo asked. "She looks like her, only prettier." Cass stopped eating mid-strawberry and glanced at Ringo, a most peculiar expression on her face. "And she's so nice."

"Well, when she isn't avoiding Tonks." Severus took a sip of the Guinness Dobby had brought for the guys. It was strange that Ringo didn't notice –Cass was drinking Coke instead of her usual pre-combat screwdriver or Scotch. "I think the pink hair bothers her."

"That, or she's just busy," Ringo defended. "She gets along fine with me."

"Oh, that she does," Cass observed with a faintly-concealed smirk, picking up the Reuben. Ringo set down his sandwich and stared at her. "What?"

"You're eating mustard," the werewolf accused.  "You _hate_ mustard."

"Does she?" Severus glanced at the sandwich in his coworker's hand. "Well, a Reuben does sort of require it, or so I'm told."

"Severus, this is the woman who will not _touch_ a jar of it at home for fear of contamination."

"I'm in one of my moods, Ringo," Cass lied glibly. "Besides, this kind is rather tasty."

"No way. Who invented the zipper?"

"J. Whitcomb Judson, 1858."

"Who was the points leader in 1987 for the Penguins?"

"Mario Lemieux, of course."

"When did Armstrong take his moon walk?"

"Er…Michael Jackson did the moonwalk, Ringo." The boyish werewolf sighed with relief.

"Yep, it's Cass alright. But why the mustard all of a sudden? You really detested that at the last picnic."

"'Doth not the appetite alter?'" Severus quoted. "'A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.'"

"Yeah, look at Sevvy. He likes fried chicken now."

"Ar'right," Ringo grinned. "I am being a paranoid twit."

"Undoubtedly."

"But it is kinda odd. I mean, first the strawberries, and in November of all months, and then the mustard…I'd swear you were a Dark spy on Polyjuice or…" Ringo's eyes went wide. 

"Stop speaking now," Cass commanded. "I've got a war to fight. We'll discuss this anon."

"But…" Ringo was grinning broadly and looked like he might at any second leap up and do the Werewolf Endzone Dance of Joy, until he remembered Severus. His eyes went even wider. "_You_ knew?"

"Oh, come now, Richard," Severus replied aristocratically, setting down his fork as delicately as he would a flower. "I caught her trying haggis a month ago, and vomiting _beforehand_. Elementary."

"You better watch out during the mission tonight, then, Sis," Ringo cautioned. "Are you sure 'Dora couldn't fill in for you?"

"Don't make me kill you."

"Alright. Don't forget your guns."

************************************************************* 


	54. The Raid on Malfoy Manor

Chapter Fifty-Four: The Raid on Malfoy Manor

Lucius surveyed the ranks of the Dark Lord's most loyal followers, who were dressed in their black cloaks and metal masks. He could tell who was who, both by where they stood, and by a little bit of well-placed, barely-noticeable Legilimency. Glancing at young Vincent Crabbe, he heard a thought:

"Shoes…don't…fit…" 

Yes, that would be Crabbe, all right. He glanced at Severus Snape and was somewhat displeased by what he heard:

_"But if you _don't_ add the dragon's blood before the aconite, then what? I'll have to try that when I get back, perhaps with mugwort as a thickener…"_

Drat him, his mind was always halfway down a cauldron these days, instead of paying attention to what Lucius might begin to say. A quick glance toward Narcissa, who was hiding behind a tapestry, revealed something decidedly unpleasant:

"As Sabrina stared upward into the longing eyes of Baron LeGume, she felt within the yearning throes of-"

She had a book back there! Not even _pretending_ to pay attention! And it sounded like quite the smutty one…wait. Narcissa was not supposed to be listening in anyway. What if she _did_ spend the night reading about throbbing manhoods and waves of passion? It didn't matter. Unless she had discovered a new and disturbing way of blocking her mind to him, Lucius didn't mind. He also wondered faintly if Narcissa pictured this LeGume as blond.

"Gentlemen, we have a decided problem," Lucius announced, beginning the meeting and quite abruptly yanking Severus from his rather complicated suppositions involving what would happen if he left out the dragon's blood altogether. "Catesby's manor was raided last night, as you know, by the American detachment of Aurors and a few co-agents." 

No reaction. Damn it all, Lucius expected at least a murmur, some sign that they were awake in there… Finally he shouted: 

"Something must be done about that mad werewolf and you all know it!"

Crabbe, seeming to wake up, raised a thuggish hand. Lucius sighed. "Yes, Vincent?"

"I got the Per'fessor." 

Lucius, genuinely surprised, watched as the Crabbe boy led the other Death Eaters out to the front steps, where a carriage, drawn by black horses, was indeed drawing up to the drive. It sounded as if a wild panther who knew swearwords was trapped inside. 

Tyler? 

To the astonishment of the gathered Voldemort-supporters, the carriage halted and several black-robed guards emerged, holding a beaten, bloodied and loudly protesting female by the elbows and wrists. The guards wore the steel masks of Death Eaters, so Lucius assumed Crabbe had enlisted several newly-initiated school friends for the capture.

"Well done," he complimented calmly. "Macnair, Nott. The prisoner." He snapped his fingers and his men moved forward. Walden Macnair looked especially menacing, and Lucius remembered that the werewolf had raided his manor not a week ago. Macnair had also been the one to beat her –was it a year ago? Almost. Those damned Americans had been entrenched at Hogwarts for almost two years now, and tonight it would come to an end. 

"Gonna get me, Macnair?" the werewolf asked, sounding absurdly casual for the circumstances. For an instant Lucius wondered how she could recognize Walden, then realized the physique likely gave his old cohort away. "I wouldn't do that."

Oh, for Merlin's sake, there were Death Eaters holding both her arms under theirs. Her hands couldn't reach the wand-holster at her belt, even if they hadn't already taken it away. Why was she so stubbornly, haughtily offering Macnair lip? Foolish girl.

Lucius heard Macnair's low chuckle first, then the shots. It had taken less than a second, and now the werewolf was standing over the body of Macnair, her right hand's gun pointed at Nott's heart. The left hand's was smoking, and the American blew it away like a candle. 

"Told you," was her arrogant comment.

"Grab her!" Lucius cried. What were they thinking? She would shoot them next!

No, she wouldn't. 

Each and every one of Crabbe's assumed Death Eaters threw off the cloaks and masks, revealing the smirks and denim uniforms of American Aurory Special Operatives. Lucius grabbed Crabbe by the shoulders, intending to call him an idiot, curse him, anything-

-and saw the grinning face of Nymphadora Tonks. 

"Uncle!" she greeted cheerily. "Enjoy the performance?"

_"Serpensortia!"_ Severus cried, from Lucius' left. Malfoy was pleased to see his friend's curse surround the Aurors with pythons; even if the Operatives did dispell them and Tyler shoot through them within moments. 

"Severus!" Tyler cried furiously. "Zu Verrater!"

"Zie heist Idiot, Amerikanische Wolfe."

"Buch dich!"

Lucius watched in mute fascination as his friend and bastard daughter swore at each other. Severus raised his wand to cast a spell, only to hear a shot and see a splintered bit of wood in his hand a second later. A bullet whizzed by his own head, so closely he could feel it ruffling his hair, and Lucius ran. Even his own wand was no match for five, perhaps more Aurors, not if they had guns.

Narcissa was still in the alcove; the one place where Apparating would work while the house was under attack. A word, and they were gone. Surprised, she clung to him, and Lucius realized where he had taken them –the chateau in France.

He hoped the Ministry wouldn't decide to 'help' the Americans in the search, as he could more easily bribe Fudge to let him off if the raiders were American –or he could have before Fudge was arrested. Either way, Umbridge hated the Yanks as much as her predecessor, and Albus Dumbledore didn't quite run everything yet. Lucius also hoped that Severus and perhaps Pettigrew escaped safely. Past that, he didn't really care. He had more money, in various places, and the chateau was Unplottable. It would be best to wait.

And perhaps, he could win his beloved back.

************************************************************** 

"Blood and gall!" The Aurors watched as their commander tore open the drapes of an alcove behind a tapestry. "The Malfoys are gone. Disapparated." Cass indicated two of her brothers-in-law: "Tyler and Tyler, search the house."

"Yes, Colonel!"

"Tonks, you have accounted the prisoners?"

"Yes, Colonel, four Death Eaters, including Macnair, Nott, and an unidentified non-Briton."

"Pettigrew?"

"No, sir –ma'am…how the hell do you address superiors in your country?" Tonks frowned. Cass shrugged.

"Fucked if I remember. Watling, any house-elf resistance?"

"None."

"Good. Tell them that their master has sold them." Mel looked surprised and Ringo frowned.

"Wouldn't that qualify as looting or wrongful continuation of bondage?"

"We're on British soil, so the elves can be considered property for this purpose. As to the looting…" Cass arrogently drew a pawful of Galleons from her pocket and tossed them into the alcove. "Bought and paid for."

"Whom shall I say has purchased them, Colonel?" Mel inquired.

"Tell them…oh, hell. Tell them they were purchased by Colonel C.A. Tyler of the American Aurory as a gift for Staff Sergeant Hermione Granger. She'll be amused by the sentiment once we get her back."

"Colonel Sis, you are evil," Ringo observed, chortling.

"Quite so, Lieutenant. Would you and Sergeant Tonks start inspecting the library?" Cass turned back to Mel. "And while you debrief the elves, Sergeant Watling, kindly confiscate any contraband peanut butter and apples you may find in the kitchens." Damn weird cravings. "And some tea, if they have anything decent."

As her men (and women, as the politically correct section of her mind pointed out,) darted off in various directions to case the joint, it occurred to Cass that this whole commanding-officer schtick was not so bad as she had thought it. As soon as Embedded War Journalist Clearwater and Embedded War Photographer Creevey showed up, she could have wonderfully smug photographs taken of herself and the Aurors on the scene. 

It was an Aurory tradition, when raiding a Dark manor, for the CO and officers to take a picture smoking the Dark wizard's personal cigars, drinking the most expensive wine, lounging on the chairs, playing…oh, she had long looked forward to the spectacle of her team in a major Dark manor. All Aurors did. Normally, the local papers would show a traditional, Elliot Ness-style picture of the raiders doing proper search work, yet the smirky, 'fun' pictures were a fondly held custom. 

After sending word via cellular walkie-talkie to John, who was back at the Machine, to ward down the place, Cass began deciding the most opportune posing sites. The library was a definite. Perhaps the Aurors could all wear paper hats whiley the postured outrageously. Paper hats were so childish and lighthearted, especially in the stern, dignified library. Donning skirts and doing the can-can on Lucius desk seemed so… no, it was perfect. She wondered if Narcissa would mind lending a few from the closet. Ringo and Paul looked so good in skirts.

Absently, the Colonel picked up a book and began to flip through it. Ah, the Malfoy family photo album. Draco as a baby; good god, was he cute! His fifth birthday… Cass gasped in spite of herself.

Standing next to what could only be the preschool incarnations of Maria Catesby and Blaise Zabini was a ten or eleven-year-old girl. Her nose, eye shape, and hands were completely familiar, even if her hair, eye color and weight were different. Cass checked the caption, written in Narcissa's even script, and discovered her friend's secret.

Mel Watling had been Elena Marie Catesby.

******************************************************** 

"Severus…"

"What is it?" The Potions professor had a grim look as he prepared the six glasses of Wolfsbane potion, and John knew he was missing Hermione. Perhaps the newspaper would help. John set it before his friend and smoothed the wrinkles out. Severus looked over the cauldron at the headline:

'Malfoy Manor Raided –Dark Articles Found!' 

The picture was not quite so dignified. All seven male Aurors were wearing frilly skirts and dancing an athletic can-can on the Malfoys' dinner table, while Cass, Mel Watling, and Tonks waved beer steins and mischievously slipped money into their waistbands. Each and every person in the picture was wearing a paper hat. 

"So, you want a sedative for your wife?"

"Severus, I think you could lighten up a bit. As soon as we find Narcissa Malfoy, she can lead us to Hermione. Meanwhile, we are either tracking or holding every Death Eater Cass has shot. Apart from Malfoy, Pettigrew, and yourself, we have just about everyone save Moldy-Voldy himself tagged."

"And what if they decide we're getting too close?"

"They wouldn't kill her, Severus."

"How can you know? What if they…" The Professor clenched his fists. "Why would they want her anyway? She's not brewing potions or doing charms for them, and they haven't offered or accepted a hostage switch. Why?"

"That's the other reason why I came, Severus." John took a deep breath before continuing. "Among Lucius' books and papers were many works on primogeniture, reincarnation, heredity… all par for the course for a Death Eater, but there was something else." Severus stared at the werewolf in horror.

"You think they might want to use her for…?" 

"I won't allow that and neither will Cassie. Even if the Machine can't find her, it can cast a spell on the fifty-mile range in which Narcissa has been for the past few weeks."

"What spell?"

"Standard anti-ceptive. If nobody in the United Kingdom gets knocked up for a few weeks, who would notice at this time of year?" Severus raised an eyebrow quizzically and John explained: "Football, Severus. Britain's going to the World Cup, looks like."

"Don't you Yanks call it 'soccer'?"

"Yes, but just the other day Cass asked for tea and biscuits. Your language is rubbing off. Why do women get weird cravings, anyway?"

"Probably to see if their mates love them still despite increasing waistlines. Is she showing at all yet?" John's eyes lit up proudly.

"Only a little. Her one pair of jeans don't quite button. Severus, I can feel the baby's heartbeat already. It's _fast_."

"Yes, that's a good sign."

"There's this other thing, sort of odd, but…" the werewolf blushed a bit. "Exactly how much do you know about this kind of thing?"

"More than is logical. Quite a lot of potions deal with this particular area of human activity, so I'm about as knowledgeable as Poppy."

"Then you know all the usual side effects?"

"More or less."

"Well…" John was by now quite scarlet. He bent and whispered in Severus' ear. The professor almost laughed.

"Yes, that's perfectly normal! After all, they're supposed to be functional in another few months."

"I hadn't considered it that way," John admitted.

"I expect you're enjoying it, though?"

"Oh, rather, though Cassie's pissed to the ninth circle of hell that her bras don't fit." John smiled wistfully. "It'd be nice if we got Hermione back in time for the baby to be born. Cassie and I've always had trouble with choosing names."

"She was joking earlier about naming a boy baby 'Severus.'" Snape shuddered, but John remained cheerful.

"Oh, she wasn't joking. Cassie's dead serious." Utterly missing his friend's terrified glance, John continued. "She said you checked and found out what kind it was."

"Yes, the test tells me that automatically. Do you want to know?"

"That's the thing. I'm not sure if it's proper."

"Muggles do."

"Well, yes, but my mother knew by intuition that we were boys. Will Cassie be able to-?"

"I don't know, but if it's a quality unique to werewolves, then I would imagine that at some level she does know." Severus finished chopping the daisy roots and slid them from the cutting board into the cauldron. "Are you worried that you'll be disappointed?"

"Severus, I could care less what gender my child is." As suddenly as he had made this statement, however, John looked at the back wall of the Potions room and sighed. "I'm lying, of course. I would especially like a girl."

Severus seemed surprised.

"I thought most men wanted sons."

"Well, to hell with most men. I'd like a baby girl."

"Dare I inquire why?" John sighed tenderly.

"Severus, you've met my wife. Another like her? Not to mention daughters…they're just so sweet and loving, even when they grow up. Cassie's a daddy's girl in many ways, and I want what her father has."

"What will you name her?"

John didn't even pause to think.

"When Cassie wrote for the school paper, 'Michelle' was her nom de plume. I've always liked that name, and Cassie can't bear the idea of 'Cassandra the second,' 'cause a girl called junior sounds… it's just sort of weird." The werewolf frowned at the thought, then realized that Severus had used a definite article. "You mean…?"

"John Tyler, in mid-June you and your wife Cassandra will be blessed with a baby girl. I can't guarantee her appearance, but she is already a werewolf and will likely be exceptionally long at birth, despite what can only be described as a near lack of maternally bequeathed height genes."

John didn't even blink at the fact that Severus had just called Cass short. His face was such a perfect portrait of abject joy that Snape almost turned away from him. Yet quite abruptly, the expression slid from his face and the werewolf's eyes went vacant. Severus started in surprise. "John?"

_"BEHOLD,"_ the Seer intoned in a voice not his own. _"THE THIRD OF THE HEIRS IS NOW FORETOLD. GUARD WELL THE FIRST, FOR SHE SHALL HAVE NO TRUE BROTHER. THE SECOND REMAINS UNKNOWN UNTIL THE FIRST IS ALREADY OF AN AGE, TO BE RAISED IN INFAMY WITH THE THIRD AND FIRST. WHEN THE THIRD PASSES HER SIXTEENTH YEAR, THEN SHALL THE LAST OF THE THREE WARS BEGIN. BEWARE ANY HE WHO WOULD MATE THE SECOND, UNLESS HE BE THE BLOOD UNCLE OF THE THIRD, FOR ELSE SHALL ALL HOPE BE UTTERLY LOST FOR THE LIGHT."_

Severus lost no time in writing down the prophecy verbatim. By the time he added a quotation to the end of 'light,' John was himself again.

"So…shall we go up to Hogsmeade, Severus?" The Professor stared as the werewolf grinned. "I saw baby-sized Quidditch robes."

****************************************************** 


	55. Reports

Chapter Fifty-Five: Reports

"And you wrote it all down?" Cass had an oddly calm expression as Severus handed her the scribbled prophecy. She read it, folded it, and placed it in a pocket of her uniform, only the slightest marks of melancholy coloring her impassive look. "Don't worry. I've heard words to this effect before, always something about these three heirs and such-and-such won't happen until such-and-such happens first and beware the ides of March and such." The werewolf shrugged, trying her best to seem affable and nonchalant. "Birman Wood to Dunsinane, all that stuff."

"Cassandra, he and I were discussing your child when the prophecy started." 

"Sometimes he gets them in the bathtub. I'm used to it."

"I think the 'third heir' he spoke of is –how would you notice prophecies if he was in the bathtub alone?"

"Whoever said we take baths alone? Have you ever tried to scrub your own back when your elbow's been hexed all to spit? Besides, it's more efficient."

"I'm sure that _efficiency_ is your main objective," Severus observed wryly. "What if this 'third heir' prophecy has something to do with your child?" 

Cass pulled out the prophecy and read it again.

"The first shall have no true brother –well, that leaves the Weasleys out. Raised in infamy…hmm. Mistaken parentage or a bad neighborhood? Propechies nowadays are so insuccinct."

"Be serious. The whole blood uncle of the third idea leads me to think that the third heir is your child and therefore Draco should be the second's mate."

"Mate as in mating, or as in chess? What if the second heir is Ron, and noone should try to beat him at chess except Draco or else shall all hope of ever beating the little showoff is lost. John has made prophecies regarding the toast, you know."

"Toast?"

"Yes, a few months ago. 'Beware the spread with hue of October leaves, lest the scorched bread be unfavorably besmirched.' It turned out the marmalade had weird little seeds in it. I just can't get excited every time we get messages like this."

"So you're ignoring the warning?"

"Hell, no. I'm going to add this one to the notebook of all the other ones I've kept since the first on he did for me, and as soon as I have a free moment or need something to read while I dye my hair, I'll look over them."

"You can't dye your hair, you know."

"Oh, right! I'd been usin g the Muggle kind to avoid dispellment charms turning me into an anime character, but I bet Ginny could fix the roots for me with some kind of spell. I'd see that stylist up in Hogsmeade, but I'm a bit lazy."

"Too lazy to go with me this afternoon? I went with John earlier, but he didn't seem to want to look for potions ingredients."

"Really? What could possibly dissuade him from something like that?" Cass looked confused and Severus stifled a smile. "Oh, don't you give me that, Severus! Where were you two?"

"Quality Quidditch Supplies, actually."

"Oh." The witch seemed to accept this answer. "Normally I'd be ticked that I didn't get to go, but Draco and I went last month and there was nothing too remarkable that I hadn't seen in the catalog. What'd you think of the new polyurethane Quaffles?"

"I liked the variety of colors, but the grip seems like it could be impaired, and I'd always preferred leather."

"I was more of a pebbled rubber sort until I tried a regulation leather one at the academy. Definitely easier to catch." The werewolf unbuttoned the coat of her denim uniform and began to search through the inside pockets. "Tell you what. How about we go up to Hogsmeade, buy every exotic potions ingredient your Slytherin heart desires, and then we'll both have something done to our hair. It's more fun than going alone."

"What could I possibly do to it?" Severus examined a lock of his dark and already-greasy-from-the-cauldron-fumes-by-four hair. "It's just hair."

"I'm not suggesting anything as radical as highlights, Sevvy, but you could get a trim and maybe do something to repel the sticky stuff that seems to adhere to it."

"A trim?"

"Just to take the split ends off." Cass took a lock, twisted it, and showed him the damaged tips. "Snip here, very little loss of length."

"Wait. Can't you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Cut hair."

"What on earth gave you that idea?"

"Well, you seem so knowledgeable…and you _are_ a woman."

"And by virtue of lacking a 'Y' chromosome I can automatically perform any tonsorial feat up to and including nail trimming? What kind of a dangerous stereotype is that?" Cass looked rather offended for a second and Severus sighed apologetically, only to have her brighten immediately. "I used to trim my dad's, actually. Just don't trust every female whacko with scissors around your hair, or you could stand to lose an ear." The witch removed the coat of her uniform altogether, revealing a tight pair of jeans and a t-shirt that didn't quite conceal a faintly becoming bulge.

"You're still wearing those jeans?"

"Whyever not? I mean, just because one is expecting doesn't mean –merciful peace!" The poor werewolf went ashen and clutched at her stomach. "Sevvy, something's wrong!"

"Alright, sit down. Now, don't panic." The professor stood and fetched a stethoscope from a drawer. "What does it feel like?"

"Sort of like bubbles, but harder."

"Where?" Cass took Severus' hand and showed him the location of the weird sensation.

"Is it bad?" Severus rolled his eyes and got out his wand. "What the-?"

"_Transpereo illusia_." A hovering, exact view of what was going on in Cass's gut appeared, the magical answer to a sonogram. 

"That isn't…"

"Your baby, Cassandra, is kicking you."

Colonel Tyler of the American Aurory considered this.

"Well, that's gratitude for the free ride in there. Does the food not agree with you?" Cass watched the illusion open and close its' fists. "Good god, Sevvy, look! Fingers! Is that normal?"

"Naturally. She's a little ahead of schedule in terms of development, but with the potions you take I'm not surprised. And don't you dare go all pale again, that's a good thing!" There was a long silence.

"She?"  Severus nodded. "That's a girl baby?"

"Yes." Cass seemed utterly amazed, but Severus couldn't resist adding an additional tidbit of information. "You do know that at this stage she can hear you?"

"I thought that wasn't until-"

"Werewolves have more sensitive aural capacity. It is believed that a genetically lycanthropic foetal specimen is capable of aural comprehension as early as seven to nine weeks."

"And in English?"

"Baby werewolves hear sooner than totally human ones."

"Oh." For quite a few moments this news had the mother werewolf pleased, but then a dark shadow crossed her face. "And when I go on missions, she hears that, too?"

"As painful as this may sound, Cassandra, your unborn daughter can, in theory, already identify the voices of several Death Eaters. Conversely, though, she also knows the voices of her parents and all of their coworkers."

"Including her godfather." Cass gave the Professor a kiss on the cheek and hugged him soundly. "Uncle Sevvy."

*************************************************** 

Christmas came and went, and still no owls or word from Narcissa arrived. Death Eater manors were raided right and left, and once the Aurory squad under Col. Tyler managed to break up a full meeting, almost capturing Voldemort himself. Harry Potter had reached the point of proficiency that he was able to join the Aurors on missions, though his girlfriend got her papers a full month earlier and had already shot no less than six Voldemort-supporters before Harry even took his test. 

It was a legal loophole that enabled the minors to participate so fully in the war. By international law, American Aurory officers above the rank of captain were enabled to swear in probationary agents, and UC officers could even bestow a fully commissioned badge. The Chairperson and President made another visit to Britain, during which Colonel Cassandra Tyler was given new sidearms and the official United Coventry commission. She was now, like her husband, a UC or World Auror, effective and empowered anywhere. 

(The Chairperson and President also felt the need to bestow an especially cuddly stuffed raccoon, as a gift for whom they jokingly called 'the new Tyler officer,' and they were reported to have been given a tour of London's wizarding nightlife by one Blaise Zabini, who was now tending bar at the Sticky Lick in addition to aiding the war effort. Umbridge nearly had kittens on the spot when Maureen and Joanne declined her invitation to tea and practically exploded when Witch Weekly reported where the two world leaders had gone instead. So much for homophobia in government.)

It was thus that Ginny Weasley was now Captain Weasley, complete with stripes on the sleeves of her denim uniform and a very tasteful gun. Harry Potter, despite being the Boy Who Lived, was also the Boy Whose Girlfriend Was A Drastically Better Shot, and his rank was merely a lance corporal. Severus Snape was presented, rather against his will, to the Chairperson by his lycanthropic coworker, and thence recognized as an unofficial Captain in the field of espionage. The remarks made by the Captain with regard to the fact that his rank was equal to that of the sixteen-year-old Weasley did not quite bear repeating to history.

Oddly enough, antiwar protests had actually begun in London by a severely pacifistic minority. Cass had a word with Luna and they switched over to S.P.E.W. It was maintained by the Colonel that such unsavory tactics as threats or bribery were not used, but the fact that the 'Quibbler' carried exclusive interviews with all the most publicly known American Aurors for the succeeding month was not thought a coincidence. The publication in question also ran a full-spread picture of the Aurory squad with Col. Tyler seated at a desk, and one of the Colonel alone but for a copious amount of orange feline on her lap. A photograph of the Colonel asleep with her head resting in General Tyler's lap was considered so sweet by the old ladies of British wizarding society that another, depicting the couple bent over a tactical map of London and holding hands, ran the following month. A positively disturbing moving picture of Professor Snape, the Tylers, and hostage Hermione Granger in the midst of a Twister game was never published, but Luna bought it from Colin Creevey and had it enlarged to poster size. 

It was reported in the last month of December that Gregory Goyle had attempted to resist initiation as a Death Eater and been killed by his former friend Vincent Crabbe. Draco Malfoy was unavailable for comment. 

It was rumored that Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were living in seclusion somewhere in France, but never substantiated by the press.

Bellatrix Lestrange was interviewed by Penelope Clearwater for the 'Quibbler' and found to be somewhat saner than prior to her Aurory deprogramming. She expressed doubts as to Voldemort's superiority for the first time, and rather surprisingly wanted to know, not whether she would be eventually held in Azkaban, but whether good behavior might let her out for the Aerosmith concert. Her sister Andromeda visited for the first time and after almost an hour alone with the reputed sadist emerged and gave Colonel Tyler an almost backbreaking hug. 

The Chudley Cannons beat the Wimbourne Wasps. There was much rejoicing.

A telegram, carried by owl from the Muggle office, arrived at Hogwarts to notify Colonel Tyler of her father's death. As return to the States would require both informing the Grangers of their daughter's captivity and opening the student body to attack in her absence, Tyler did not depart, but remained a reported two days entirely out of view. It was around this time that rumors of both a devastating illness and a secret pregnancy began to flourish. As the symptoms were virtually identical, Tyler was inclined to let the 'devastating illness' theory prevail.

Buckbeak the hippogriff and his mate produced a handsome silver foal. Hagrid was beside himself for quite some time and eventually asked Colonel Tyler to act as a go-between to ask the advice of the centaurs in naming the arrival. Bern son of Ronan arrived at the gamekeeper's hut and personally bestowed wreaths of winter flowers both on the new foal and the gamekeeper, suggesting the name 'Demipegasus Raptorides.' Grawp the giant was enchanted with the little foal and called him 'Demmy' for short, learning gentleness by attending to his grooming. Hagrid was astonished by his half-brother's progress and read several books on therapy animals before eventually acquiring several Kneazle kittens to train for St. Mungo's. They all insisted on sleeping on his pillow.

Professor McGonagall got a new hat.

A first-year managed a wispy Patronus and was given an entire box of Chocolate Frogs by Professor Lupin.

The house-elves made kidney pie and Ringo Tyler discovered that this was his favorite food.

A boggart got into a shoebox and transformed into hideous snakeskin stiletto heels.

Two fifth-years made Polyjuice Potion and took turns pretending to be each other until caught.

The leaves fell.

The wind blew.

Things happened.

Things failed to happen.

Life continued.

And Severus Snape was more worried, depressed and alone than ever before in his life. Every day he wondered, would it have been better never to have fallen in love with her, so that losing her never hurt? Every day he knew that he was a fool. It would have hurt for him to lose a clever coworker and friend this way. Come to think of it, it would have hurt merely to lose a know-it-all student.

And how could he have helped falling in love, anyway?


	56. What TimeTurners Are Really For

Chapter Fifty-Six: What Time-Turners Are Really For 

_From the journal of Bilius Arthur 'Bill' Weasley:_

_            War is hell. Everyone I know has been transformed into darker, leaner shadows of themselves, some never to return. My father looked at me yesterday and by the gods, he looked old. My father, old -it's unimaginable, even when he began to lose his hair he was always so active and loving toward us kids. Now he and Mum look like strangers almost, the effort is wearing so heavily on them. _

_Ron is a soldier now, all tactics and techniques and 'let's-go-kill.' My youngest brother knows how to use the Killing Curse, and what's more, he's not afraid to. I carried him on my shoulders and now he's having to carry his wounded friends on his. He has to hide his emotions for efficiency and sanity's sake. For that I don't blame him, but Mum cried after he came back for dinner at Grimmauld Place. Her children are all involved in the war somehow, even Percy and Ginny. _

_Ginny. I'm frightened even imagining what she may become. That American has her in uniform at all times, armed, and I scarcely recognize the little sister who used to demand that I read to her. She at least still laughs and jokes, which is more than I can get out of Ron, but she does it with a gun on her hip and brass buttons on her coat. _

_Mum invited the American Aurory squad to dinner when Ginny got her commission. (a very Mum-like thing to do, by the way, your daughter gets her sidearms and a license to kill people and the proper response is to make carrot cake.) Since Dumbledore was to be there, or because she lost a bet or some other absurd reason, Cassie Tyler had everyone in full dress uniforms. White gloves, gold braid, epaulets…it looked like the Muggle war movies we sometimes saw in Ottery St. Catchpole. True, Tonks had pink hair, but apart from that, it was really an unnerving sight. I watched as these blue-coated Aurors came in and took off their outer robes, which are like short capes, and it was then that I _saw_ the full dress uniform. The American Muggles' Civil War looked like what my sister and her friends wear. _

I suppose that's why soldiers and Aurors wear those kinds of uniforms. If they can chill the blood of their family, imagine what they do to the enemy. The enemy. That sounds so civilized. My baby sister shot at a madman night before last. If Voldemort hadn't Disapparated, she would have sent a lump of lead and brass directly through his skull.

_Dumbledore had to lift the ban on Severus Snape's false bullets, by the way. Gregory Goyle junior's remains were found tied to the Hogwarts gate after he tried to resist joining the Death Eaters. According to Severus, Goyle's own best friend and father did it to him. He wasn't called to that meeting, or he would have risked his cover to save that boy, I'd bet my life on it. That man cares far more about his students than my siblings ever realized. Since Hermione Granger was kidnapped, the light's just gone out of his eyes again. I only catch little glimpses of the man I had almost become friends with, and that's when Cassie Tyler gets into one of her moods again. It's to the point where even wizards for the Light doubt her sanity sometimes. _

_When Goyle's body was discovered, she gave orders for her own men to give him a military funeral on the grounds and then proceeded to line up each and every one of the Slytherins above second year on the Quidditch pitch. She had some of those portraits of Voldemort brought out, then took her guns and shot the eyes out of them. She made those children watch as their parents' leader, for some, was used for target practice. Anyone who looked frightened she made stand on the other side of the pitch. Anyone who looked pleased or excited by the shooting she sent to her brother-in-law's room in the dungeons. After she had gone through the lot, there were about ten kids who had been scared when she shot at Voldemort. Dobby brought out more targets and a box of small-caliber pistols, and Cassie Tyler had each and every one of those kids practice shooting at Voldemort until they could hit twice out of three without flinching. _

_While they did this, she lectured them on what the Dark Lord had done, every cruel and vicious deed from the Longbottoms to Goyle and everything in between, pacing back and forth and speaking in a voice that almost drowned out the guns. This went on for some three hours, with more portraits being brought as needed and the grim lecture never ceasing._

_When she had gone through about forty clips of ammunition, Smokey Tyler had about ten new Death Eater spies to train. Crazy, but effective. _

_The Chairperson of the United Coventry and the President of the Wizarding United States, the two most powerful witches, if not people altogether, in the world, told my sister's squad to call them Mo and Jo, short for Maureen and Joanne. It's interesting that the seat of all world power has remarked favorably on my mom's carrot cake. They arrived at the Shrieking Shack, which is both the Tyler residence and the primary staging area for the 112th International, (Ginny's unit's official name,) to drop off the new secure-facility technical operative, Caitlin Pierce. I've actually met people from her school, the Agar Academy in Australia, working for Gringotts, because apart from goblins, Agar graduates know more about security and how to outsmart it than any creatures in the world. In spite of this impressive alma mater and a resume as long as my arm, especially for one so young, including Head Girl at Agar and Keeper of Keys for the Australian Ministry, the Tylers wanted to test the new girl out._

_It was thus that I had to explain to Clipring why I had the world's third-largest diamond in my hand when I came to work. _

_The goblins were, naturally, distressed that someone could rob their second-best system, undetected, and then return the loot, but the fact that the 112th gave it a polish before they gave it to me to return and took a few pictures made it seem more like an amiable joke than a full-scale emergency. That diamond is a _heavy_ bugger, though. Make a nice paperweight. I have the picture of Ginny with it on her head on my desk now, next to one of Mum and Dad with Ron and the 112th, Charlie and Norbert the dragon, and a black-and-white Muggle-style one of Maria. The little Creevey boy was drying prints in Cassie Tyler's classroom and she bought the picture from him for me. It's very good, with the light coming just over her shoulder. Even without the color, I can tell how her eyes are that dark, dark green like fathomless emeralds, how her Slytherin tie makes them seem to shine, and how that quietly intense look hides one of the most brilliant minds and most loving hearts of the age._

_I hope she's happy. I don't have the nerve to write. Cassie Tyler implored me to, but she couldn't remember exactly why. She just kept insisting it was dreadfully important. Sometime when things are less wild, perhaps, whn I can feel less guilt for a broken heart when the world is in flames, then I'm going to write. I'm going to wish her well. I'm going to tell her I don't need to know anymore than I do, and that I will always remember her fondly. I won't tell her how I wake at night dreaming of those eyes, or how I may never find anyone who makes me feel even a quarter of what she made me feel. I won't tell her I love her, because I can't. Maybe someday I'll sort it out enough to get my pen out of my journal and onto a parchment, but not today. As selfish as it sounds, I still hurt too much._

****************************************************************

John,  
            The MacPhersens refused to bow to Death Eaters and surrender their son last night. I think you can guess the rest. Donaghan will be sent to his great-grandfather's, but old Donalbain MacPhersen has to have Peatbog Castle cleaned and toddler-prrofed ans stocked with food fit for live persons. (He is what Nearly Headless Nick would call 'opaquely challenged' also.) Would you see that he is met at the 8:15 arrival of the Hogwarts Express and taken to the castle? If you and Cassandra would like, he may wish to stay with you, but please keep all firearms, wands and scandalous books away from him. (Just in case Umbridge drops by, you understand.) He will be at Hogwarts at the least three days.  
With my thanks,  
-Albus Dumbledore

"You know, that letter only took me half an hour to read. I'm fairly impressed with myself. Shall we, dear?"

"I think he would be happy here." Cass set down the notebook she had been reading. "I won't make him look over Caiti Pierce's notes, but he can probably keep himself busy with the Dr. Seuss and the VCR while I do serious work. After I plot the capture and/or killing of Voldemort, the rescue of Hermione, the quilt pattern for our first daughter's bed and find some proper donuts, I could do with a quiet day watching Donaghan."

"You did understand what Albus told us?"

"That we would –oh, dear." The werewolf sounded more concerned. "He's just lost his parents, poor little guy."

"May I take him to Chuck E. Cheese with Severus?"

"Darling… number one, they don't have them in this country, I think, number two, _Severus?, _and number three, wouldn't a giant perambulating rat scare the crap out of him?"

"I didn't know he went about in a pram," Mel observed, coming down thestairs with an armload of what appeared to be both paperwork and foil-wrapped chocolates. "_Whom_ is the giant rat?"

"Oh, nevermind."

"Merely one of the eccentricities of our culture, Melanie," John explained. "There's a childrens' restaurant chain with a mouse for a mascot."

"Rat."

"Cassie, he's gray. Rats are brown."

"A _giant_ rat."

"He's only person-sized."

"A _giant_, talking rat who walks around and frightens the sodwockets out of innocent children."

"It's just a mascot."

"It's a bloody great rodent what eats pizza, John! I'm not going to expose Donaghan to that!"

There was a long silence after this. Mel, who had never seen the Tylers come even this close to a spat, as well as never having seen Cass even remotely on edge, tried to be invisible.

"When?" John asked suddenly.

"Friend's birthday party. I was four." Cass shuddered at the scary memory. "Giant rat."

"Severus' white rats don't frighten you, do they?"

"Of course not. They're little and vaguely cute. _Giant_ ones, on the other hand…"

"Who knew? The Scourge of Southenderby's great phobia's giant rats," Mel laughed.

"'Scourge of Southenderby'? Who the sod named me that?"

"Rita Skeeter, commenting on the way you raided F- the Catesby manor, setting the fenced moors alight and all." Mel glossed over her slip effortlessly as she continued. "It was a very picturesque fire, after all, didn't hurt anyone, and got Muggles involved by just about exploding that snobby git's anonymity." She smiled merrily and tilted the heap of paperwork so the chocolates landed in Cass' lap. "French-mint kind, your favorite, just owled from a devoted admirer."

"Did you check 'em?" John asked, eying the candies suspiciously.

"Poison _and_ potion scan, not to mention it was a devoted admirer from Hogwarts."

"Oh, dear." Cass frowned and began scratching a reply note on a scrap parchment in the rake-rail printing she used instead of proper cursive. "Here, owl this back with some sodas from the fridge. Stupid Secret Santa thing."

"Which?"

"Oh, everyone draws a name and they give anonymous presents leading up to the holiday, and you respond with anonymous return presents. I have no idea who sent those, but I send something back, and on Christmas Day I'll open their present and find out who the sodwockets they are. I also have to send presents to the name I drew."

"Let me guess," John observed in an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone. "Dumbledore's idea."

"Worse. Flitwick's." Cass suddenly glanced mischievously up at her mate from her desk. "Do I detect a bit of jealousy, my lover?"

"No, I had to draw a name as well. Just wondered what kind of a Prozac'd sadist came up with such a cock an' bull idea."

"Darling!" Cass looked positively stunned and faintly turned-on. "I haven't seen you in this bad a mood about…well, short of Moldy-Voldy's latest atrocity, _anything_." John shrugged and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"May I plead stress, m'love?"

"Only if you're willing to risk my relieving it." Cass took hold of her husband's tie, drawing him closer.

"In the middle of the day?"

"Not everybody's from England, love."

Paperwork was shoved aside, pencils and quills went skittering, and just before a back hit the desk, Mel Watling let out a squeak.

"Erm…I'm still, uh, kind of in the room!"

"Oh." Cass righted herself and tucked her hair back behind her ears, going a little red as John cleared his throat. "Sorry. Bit hormonal lately."

"A _bit!"_ Mel still looked like she'd caught parents at it. "I should have such a _bit_ in my profession!"

"Speaking of…" John crossed his arms and looked sort of quizzical. "Exactly how seriously should we take the rumor of…what your profession…"

"Was? Is?" Mel smirked. "I'm a hooker, Wolfy."

"Ah. Well, just so that clears things up…" Cass had to stifle a giggle watching John blush.

"Sorry, Mel, he's just too gentlemanly to take blunt, brazen _femmes dangereuses_ like us seriously."

"Eh, you're monogamous, wolfy-girl. I've seen more brazen from fifth-years."

As Cass raised an eyebrow at this challenge, John was heard to murmur an expletive out of fear of what the Briton had now begun: a dirty-minds' contest.

"Darling Melly, despite my monogamous and rather blissful state, I have tried pastimes most polite people never so much as look up in a dictionary, what _few_ are indeed listed."

"So you did have some fun before you settled down!" Mel looked pleased. "Let's hear!"

"Actually, I didn't, but where that's any business of-"

"Good god, you mean to tell me you still had your v-card at the altar, mate?" The British girl looked both disappointed and impressed. "Odd nowadays."

"I did," John explained normally, thoroughly expecting Cass to concur. 

"Well, _I_ didn't."

For a long moment, the couple looked at each other. Mel realized she might well have begun the first real fight the two had ever had. But then Cass explained: "Remember about three weeks after we got married, when I came home early from work? I…er, well…"

_"You used your Time-Turner?!"_

"Hey, I was terrified! I didn't know jack about –well, _jack,_ when you got ahold of me, and I at least wanted an _idea_ of what we would be doing!"

"You never mentioned it…"

"Well, I was also a little plastered after the bachelorette party and I decided 'what the hell'? It was either shag your future self or find some other guy to satisfy my curiosity, and to put it bluntly, I didn't _want_ any other guy." 

Mel could only watch in astonishment as John raised a hand toward his wife's cheek. Cass shut her eyes, only to feel the gentle caress that preceded a proper kiss.

"If I had ever needed proof you loved me, that was it." The werewolf opened his wife's hand and showed her a tiny, pale line on the side of her ring finger. "You got that on a corkscrew the week after. When you didn't have it two weeks later, it was easy to guess. I had no idea you'd be nervous."

"Well, I _was_…I mean, look what pop culture's done to the …act."

"How about we undo that with another book?"

"Mmmm, research…"

Leaving the pair alone, Mel made some personal vows. One, she was going to find a guy like John, and two, she wanted a Time-Turner of her own!

******************************************************************* 

Severus was almost asleep, sitting in his armchair with the leather-bound magic book. Hermione's last message had been read so many times the edge of the page was gray, yet still he couldn't stop checking for an update. What if one never came?

"Calm down, love."

That voice! Severus spun around and saw –a vision? The eyes and face were similar, but more mature, and a corkscrewing scar showed on the wrist of his dream-Hermione with the shimmery, unreal Time-Turner in her hand. She wore a silvery gray dress, almost like a ghost, and there were miniscule lines about her eyes and a slight difference in her form, but she was still beautiful, still herself…

"Yes, this is what I'll look like at forty-four. You should see Cass at fifty –wait. You will."

Oh, it was she, alright.  
"I want you to stop worrying and get some rest, Severus. If you need to believe I'm a dream, do that, but our children can't think _how_ you survived."

"Children?" Severus asked the dream. She let out an airy laugh and gave him such a familiar smile he nearly broke down right before her eyes.

"Yes, that should convince you that this isn't real. Whatever you need to think, only get some rest before you change the future by dying on me."

"I won't?"

"You stand a far greater risk from yourself than Voldemort, Severus. Just keep what may to be in mind, and don't mourn what you cannot change." The spectre kissed him and stepped back. "Now to bed with you!"

As the dream-figure disappeared, Severus drew the vial of Dreamless Sleep from his robe pocket, then stopped. He set it down, went to the cabinet, and found a different potion, one made with Lethe's bramble and asphodel. He wanted to remember his dreams tonight.

**************************************************************** 

A/N: I'm following orders here. What'd you think?


	57. Hermione Returns

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Hermione Returns

At the Hogwarts gate, where all too recently some third-years had discovered a dead body, there was a loud, banging knock. The snow continued to fall, both on the person who had knocked and on everything else. Noone came. She knocked again, and again, shaking snow from the metal gate. Finally, Hagrid, lumbering like an enormous bear, appeared.

"I'm comin', I'm…_Hermione?"_

As the figure smiled, there was a loud noise in the distance like fireworks.

*************************************** 

"So _that's_ a Chicago typewriter." The grinning, sweaty werewolf looked at the gun in her hand, which smoked nicely at the barrel, with a pleased air. "Always wanted to try one of these."

"And this is the best vegemite sandwich I've ever 'ad," Caiti Pierce observed, gesturing with the edible in question toward the targets her commanding officer had so liberally spiced with lead. "Who sent you the tommy-gun?"

"Katie Scarlett Beauregard Malfoy, with the most poetic note." Cass held up the card and read aloud: "'Dear Cassie, feel free to write your latest book with this, preferably on Moldy-Voldemort's worthless hide.' I love the South."

"Have you eaten?"

"No, why?"

"Well, Dobsy or whatever the sock elf's name is –he made sandwiches. Figured that while you're killing fierce targets you'd need a snack."

"Not vegemite?"

"The rye ones are vegemite, you uncultured Yankee shiela. White is turkey."

"Ah, leftovers."

Even as snow landed on the two Aurors and their sandwiches –and their guns- it was obvious that they were practicing on a Quidditch pitch. It became _more_ obvious when a Bludger hit the snow next to them, splattering both Aussie and American.

_"Gaah!"_

"Draco, you little punk!" Cass dropped the empty gun into the padded case and grabbed her broom, cussing creatively at the grinning blonde. "I'm going to knock you into next-!"

"No flying for you, Per'fessor. Uncle Severus says."

"Out the left one!" Cass flew sharply upward, above the Slytherin, then turned, preparing for a power dive, when quite abruptly the broom bucked and halted in mid-air. "What the bloody-?"

"_No_ flying," a voice from below announced. Draco snickered and watched with unrestrained glee as his godfather, wand aimed high, levitated the ticked-looking Yank back to earth. "How many times must I lecture you?"

"Try about two more, Per'fessor Snape," Caiti observed, biting into yet another vegemite. 

"I don't care if Lucius Malfoy himself flies into this pitch and challenges you to a grudge match, with Voldemort's head as the trophy, I don't want you on a broom!"

"Okay, lay off, Sevvy. I can take a hint." Cass dismounted with a growly, ticked and rather immature expression. "Would it please your _royal_ highness if I continued to practice my shooting?"

"Ears, Cassandra. _Little_ ears, in the process of forming."

"Fuck. May I fence?"

"If your knees are up to it."

"Damn. The one warlike skill I've not got I'm allowed to do." Caiti raised an eyebrow.

"You can't fence?"

"Not worth a damn, I can't." Packing up the guns and heading for the castle, the werewolf spied the frozen lake. "Sevvy, may I-"

"No skating!"

"But, Severus! I promise to be utterly careful! I'm a very good skater, or so I'm told."

"Twenty minutes, and I will be timing you." Severus frowned. "And don't you dare ask me to try it!"

In ten, Cass had retrieved a pair of very unusual ice skates from the Shrieking Shack. They were of the hockey variety, but with a toe stop slightly above where it would be located on a figure skate's blade and a lot of intricate embroidery on the black and white leather that composed the boot. Removing her snowboots, the skates took only a moment to slip on and secure. After a few tentative back-and-forths with the shining blades against the firm ice of the Hogwarts lake, the werewolf took off. 

There was only a little grace in her style, and it was perfectly clear why she had excelled in hockey. Speed was not a problem, nor agility in quick turns, but Severus doubted she could have executed any fancy moves. The striped rugby shirt she wore broadened her shoulders slightly and downplayed the increasing femininity of her build even more so that the coats and obscene-phrase t-shirts she had worn commonly –to the end that she looked exactly like one would expect an Auror and ex-hockey player to. The only thing attractive or womanly about her was the long, dark ponytail with grown-out bangs escaping her scrunchie to hang about her ears. Even at her scruffiest, Cassandra had lovely hair.

John slid onto the ice, so calmly and fluidly that Severus barely noticed him until he had reached the center of the frozen lake. His hair was also tied back, lower toward the neck and with a black ribbon that stood out against the burgundy of both hair and sideburns. Severus only realized John had shaved his beard when Cass noticed and staggered vaguely in surprise. He looked younger and more vigorous, as if the quiet, almost poetic reservation had been removed with the razor, and for almost the first time Severus could see how perfectly the pair were matched. 

They began to skate together, the warlike slashes against the ice mellowing to glides and scruffy, violent Cassandra becoming for a few moments the ingenuous and enamored newlywed she was. It was as if the war had matured her to Moody's age in months, yet on the ice with John the war ceased to have ever existed. 

Severus couldn't watch.

It was as he walked silently back toward the Great Hall that he heard the commotion of a joyous crowd, welcoming someone home. He scarcely heard a word before he knew who it must be.

She.

He broke into a run and the werewolves stopped skating.

********************************************************* 

"And the Death Eaters locked me in a dungeon, with a few books on potions and some ingredients and a cauldron…I'm sorry, I had to brew what they told me to!"

"Oh, we understand," a sympathetic-sounding girl assuaged. 

"Was it terrible?"

"I was petrified!"

"Hermione –Granger?" Snape caught himself at the last second. The girl raised her head and he recognized the face he so adored.

"Professor Snape!" She ran to him, but not for an embrace. "I had to make these horrible potions for the Dea-"

"Really?"

Some ten or fifteen heads swiveled to the door. There, standing in some wet and snowy socks, with skates over one shoulder, was Cass, grinning insanely. 

"Professor Cass!" Hermione cried. "I've just come back –I escaped-!"

"Out the left one!"

Severus stared at his coworker, even as her almost-bare feet smacked the cold stone and left a wet trail of prints toward Hermione. She was still grinning, despite her remark, and spoke in a cheery tone. "How did those Death Eaters treat ya?" Hermione looked nervous at this weird behavior.

"They were…they were kind of mean…"

"My foot they were!" Cass stayed chipper, with wide, staring eyes, even as people began to back away tensely. "What's my middle name?"

Hermione blinked.

"Excuse m-"

"My name, you know it. Come on." Cass's grin began to show falsity and look more like a death's head as Hermione looked blank. "Or perhaps the name of your friend Ron's pet owl? Or the name of your cat?"

"Crookshanks!"

"One point." Cass leaned in closer, to a Hermione who was suddenly her equal in height, with a fading, scary smile. "The deepest, darkest secret I ever told you, 'Mione, what's that?"

Five seconds passed, then ten, and then half and then a whole minute. Cass laughed, a staccato, barking sound, and called gaily:

"Let's see your arm!"

Roughly, the false Hermione's left forearm was seized and exposed. A 'finite incantatem' later, the Dark Mark appeared on a patch of much tanner skin, the color of which spread to cover all of Pansy Parkinson. Dropping the faker's wrist, Cass slowly reached for her gun.

John burst into the hall behind her, holding two flat black objects. He had disarmed her.

_"Cassandra, no!"_

Severus shouted too late. The werewolf attacked with fists and Parkinson defended with fingernails. It was a catfight of the first degree, with the wet, snowy wolf trying to pound hell and the Death Eater trying to scratch heaven, each out of the other. John dragged Cass off of her prey as Severus immobilized Pansy with a spell, but she kept fighting, tears and obscenities flying and mixing with blood from a cut above her eyebrow.

A false Hermione had been too much. Cass Tyler had finally snapped. 


	58. Approaching it Pensively

A/N: I do apologize for the delay. One of my cats, Pyewacket, passed away, a little after one o'clock early Christmas morning. He had been ill, but it was still a blow, and he will be greatly missed. Thank you for all your reviews, as little else makes me feel quite as reassured that this writing is not just utter tripe. Oh, and to the dear reviewers who read this story in one sitting, I applaud your patience. I can scarcely read an email without stopping to stroke a cat or get a drink. Here you go.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Approaching It Pensively

"It was a matter of Nazis when I first came. Like in the old movies and videogames, y'know, kill Hitler, the heads of the nest, and all the others will be all right, once you've deprogrammed 'em. Now it's looking more like a plague. You have to kill everyone infected before they spread the germ." Cass sighed and shrugged, palms upward. "I know that's ridiculous, and it's wrong to kill the drones and the Death Eaters, but after all they've done it's hard not to want to empty clips into their guts, y'know."

"I think you have every right to feel fury. You've lost things in this war."

"Oh, _right_. I got beat up once. Harry's lost his parents _and_ a godfather, Neville's lost his parents and has to smile in the face of their torturer, and Draco's father is almost certainly a total loss to the Dark-"

"You underestimate yourself," the bearded Interim Minister of Magic observed, his blue eyes not twinkling, but kind just the same. "Did you read the headlines after Bellatrix hexed you? The curse was aimed for my head and struck your left arm."

"I was a little too beat to read all of 'em…"

"Cassandra, the curse _did_ strike my left arm. A commander or a headmaster is nothing without his professors. You and Severus and the other Aurors have contributed so much and offered sacrifice so willingly, and yet the public assumes you're merely here for the fight." Dumbledore smiled. "I know full well why you're really here."

"But maybe I didn't arrive for idealism or to win," Cass mused, frowning. "Maybe I came more for the adventure than for the cause of right."

"Or maybe you came to Britain because you were needed and you knew you could be useful. We all seek adventure, especially when we're young, but you knew about the risks, and you faced them anyway. That doesn't seem to me the work of a thrill-seeking, jet-setting showoff Auror with a gun. That looks like courage. If you had been in it for the fun, you would have left with the first victory or the first defeat, and you wouldn't have taken it so to heart. Look at how you reacted to Maria Catesby's situation. And look at how you and Severus work together now. It's not just Hermione who brought him from his shell. You and John had a hand in it."

"But what if she isn't found?" Cass couldn't meet Dumbledore's eyes for a moment, her own were so full of tears. "What if we find her the way we found Goyle, or if they torture her, or…"

"I think we will get her back. Not all Malfoys are as evil, or as helpless, as they look."

********************************************************** 

Only in Richmond, Virginia, during the warmest Christmas season on record, could a blueblooded son of the house of Malfoy don a stupid-looking apron and barbecue with his little son.

"Katie, m'love!" Salazar greeted, as his beautiful young wife stepped onto their terrace. Little Theodoric Malfoy, aged three-and-a-half, set down his own spatula and looked to his father quizzically. "Almost time, Theo."

"That was Ringo Tyluh on the 'phone, deah. D'y'all feel up to England this weekend?"

"Why, certainly!" Sal grinned and opened a bag of potato chips. "But first, you must have a hamburger, darlin'. Theo did this one all by his wee lonesome."

"_Did_ y', Theuh?" Katie bent down and held out her arms to her little boy, who kissed her cheek and returned the hug like a very proper little Southern or British gentleman. 

"Yes, ma'am. Just as y' like it." The boy, whose tawny hair had been allowed to grow like his father's into a tousled mane, confined by an aristocratic bow at the back of his neck, sliced a bun and began sprinkling a combination of sauces onto the bread surface. Theodoric spread them evenly with a knife, then picked up his spatula and carefully transferred the burger from the grill, avoiding the heat by means of his daddy's oven mitt, which went up nearly to his armpit. He flipped the meat neatly onto the bun, only a little off-center, and even as his parents talked over his head he slyly nudged it to where it should be. 

"It's the w-a-r and the k-i-d-n-a-p-p-i-n-g," Mother explained to Father. It definitely needed lettuce. "They sent a s-p-y and Cass went-." Mother made a gesture "-again."

"Will we be visiting Auntie Cassandra, Mother?" Theodoric asked, between leaves of carefully placed lettuce atop the meat. 

"Yes, dear," Katie replied absently. "I think it would be best to have the tactical-"

"I'd best make her a burger also," Theo mumbled thoughtfully. He sliced another bun and repeated the ritual of the sauce, only with more buffalo sauce and no mustard. Lots of buffalo sauce. If it didn't make her ears steam, Auntie Cassandra was unlikely to enjoy the hamburger properly.

Oh, yes, and pickles. Auntie Cassandra adored pickles, even if Mother and Father didn't especially care for them. Theodoric couldn't remember personally, but could recall being told, how his Auntie had once given him a whole dill pickle, not a spear, to teeth on and scandalized Grandmama. Since earliest babyhood, thus, the little blueblood was a junkie for river-rat deli food. 

He sliced a tomato and laid thick slices onto the burgers, then closed them, added sword-shaped toothpicks, and set them onto plates. For his father, he used no buffalo sauce, but extra Thousand Island dressing and a slice of cheese, with exactly nine strips of bacon between cheddar and bun. His father's first bacon cheeseburger had been his first meal on American soil, and the aristocrat had never quite recovered from the subsequent addiction for dual-meat sandwiches. 

His parents were still having something between a conversation and a spelling bee over his head, so Theodoric decided to act on assumption and placed chips on both plates before fetching the foil to wrap up the ultra-hot, Tabasco-laced buffalo burger he had prepared for Auntie Cass. He quickly slipped it into the new lunchbox Mother had bought for preschool, so that he could deliver the treat in prime condition. If he knew Mother and Father, tactical discussions during dinner usually meant leaping on a broom to cross continents before dessert. Theodoric didn't have the heart to tell them he could spell every word they used, never mind recognize tactics debate when he heard it. The ladies at preschool called him 'gifted.' Mother called him 'three-going-on-thirty.'

****************************************************************** 

The dream was as vivid as life in places, blurred and faded like a old photograph in others. There was his beloved, stirring a potion, her hair falling occasionally in her eyes. There she was again, reading. Asleep, leaning on him in the back of Cassandra's black car. Playing chess with Weasley in the library and looking mortally offended by the action of a bishop. Kissing him goodbye and stepping out the door-

Maybe forever.

Severus opened the Firewhiskey Cass had insisted he confiscate after the discovery of her condition. After a moment of contemplation, a glass seemed ridiculous, for as often as he and John had kept the female werewolf from drowning her brain in booze, he was to the point where it seemed like she had some good ideas. Better a burning tongue and a warm feeling in his gut than the ache in his heart.

One sip. No good. Half a bottle did no better.

A whole bottle took the edge off.

One and a half…

Drunks, it has been observed, either rage and yell and get into vicious fights, or they cry. Severus didn't have the heart or the energy left to rage, and he didn't have the control not to let his emotions overpower him –for once.

It was perhaps lucky, however, that the dour potions master fell asleep in his chair. When he would wake up, twenty hours later, with a salt taste in his mouth and a blistering hangover, it would be after two of the most hotly debated and historically legendary events of the Second War.

****************************************************************** 

"Donaghan, will you please let me out of this?"

"Na."

It was humiliating to lose one's temper in front of all hell's half-acre, even if one was more than well justified. It was worse to require tying to a chair in the minds of one's coworkers, even if she had been a bit on-edge after taking on Pansy. Hadn't she been civilized enough to chat with Dumbledore? She wasn't likely to try something stupid –okay, she was, but it was really offensive not being trusted. 

What really broke the meter, however, was having an obnoxious little Scot refuse to turn you loose, even when you begged.

"Please, Donaghan. I'll turn on Pac-Man for you."

"Y're after bein' s'pose ta' stay put, lassie."

"Who're you callin' lassie? I'm old enough to be your mum!" Cass immediately went white, realizing her gaffe. "Oh, Donnie, I'm sorry…"

"S'ar'right." The little boy sat down at the small table John had built for him and resumed crayoning on a piece of construction paper. Cass, feeling horrible, tried to brighten him up:

"What'chu drawing?"

"I'm na' drawing."

"Oh." There was a pause. "Are you coloring?"

"Na."

"Can I see?"

"Na. Still got a few letters."

"Donaghan, are you writing your name?" The Yank was incredulous. "You can write already?"

"Yep."

"May I see now?"

"A'most."

A few moments passed, and finally the little Scot looked down at a completed work of preschool calligraphy. He opened a safety pin and, despite his babysitter's protests, attached the note to her shirt, out of reach of teeth. "I'm after bein' back in a minute, lassie." The boy ambled off toward the kitchen, in search of graham crackers and peanut butter. 

Cass swore. After a few minutes of decidedly un-chiropractically-correct maneuvering later, she deciphered the upside-down lettering:

'DON'T LET LOOSE. RABIED."

_"I haven't either got rabies!"_

"Well, I canna' spell temp'rary 'nsan'ty!"

"Great. Now any visitors will assume I'm not only nuts, but rabid," Cass growled to herself. "Does the phrase 'bribery' mean anything to you, Donnie?"

"Auntie Cassandra!" 

It was Theodoric, a Mickey Mouse lunchbox and book in hand. "What the devul ah you awl tied up faw?"

"Theodoric! Wonderful!" Cass quickly summoned every ounce of fairy-godmother charm –not that she had all that much, and turned it on the little Southerner. "It's lovely to see you, dear, would you _please_ set me loose?"

"Na!"

"Who ah you, suh, to hold a lady and an officuh in bondage?" Theodoric inquired of Donaghan, looking rather like a smaller, braver Ashley Wilkes. "And not even huh husband!"

"Oh, gods."

"I am Donaghan Macduff Connor MacPhersen o' the Southwarke MacPhersens, an' this lady is my babysitter."

"I, _suh_, am Theodoric Lucius Beauregard Malfoy of the Salazar Malfoys an' this lady is not only my babysittuh as well, but she is also my honorary aunt."

The two little boys glowered at each other for a moment, then Cass coughed slightly.

"Er, gentlemen? Would one of you mind awfully…?"

"Na, Per'fessor, y' kna' Per'fessors Snape an' Tyler said you were to stay put here."

"Professor Snape?" Theodoric brightened. "He's a friend of my father's. How is he?"

"Right snarky."

"How d'y' know Auntie Cassandra, suh?"

"She's after bein' a per'fessor 'ere, an' I've been stayin' with she an' 'er husband, Per'fessor Tyler, 'til the Peatbog's ready."

"Peatbog?"

"My fam'ly castle. I'm after goin' ter' live wi' my gran'father."

"Ah." Little Theodoric appeared to consider this. Clearly, Donaghan, in possessing two middle names and a castle, was his equal in rank, which meant that instead of treating him like an ordinary obstacle, he would have to challenge him to a duel to free his auntie from the armchair. He pulled off his glove. "Ah'm not tryin' to offend you, suh, but this lady is my auntie, and I cannot have huh tied to any chair."

"Th' other per'fessors said she would fein stay there until they set her loose." Donaghan looked equally regretful for a moment, then he recalled the Nintendo set upstairs. "A duel, d'ye think?"

"A duel, suh."

"You play Pac-Man?"

"Why, yes, suh!" Theodoric looked pleased and offered a handshake. "A duel!"

And it was thus that very happily indeed, the two little boys went off to 'duel.' It should be remarked that after the second level, both forgot entirely about Cass. 

It should also be remarked that she recalled borrowing some of Sevvy's shoes, as her own had for some mysterious reason ceased to fit. She wasn't quite out of her jeans yet in terms of showing, but her feet had gone from eight-and-a-halfs to 'owwww.' The shoes in question were in fact boots, specially made by a London cobbler and retrofitted by American Auror George 'Smokey' Tyler –with toe blades.

Ropes weren't so hard after all to cut…assuming one could get one's own toe to one's waist or wrist…

*************************************************************** 


	59. Brain Colanders and Leather

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Brain Colanders and Leather

"But why the devil would you tie her up?" Draco asked Smokey. "An officer essential to defense shouldn't ever be-"

"Incapacitated? She's not that essential to the _physical_ defense, actually, and I'm counting on her breaking out of it. Why else did I leave the little boys with Cassie? I just want to give her a good twenty minutes' time to think before she comes back."

"Think? She'll be getting pissed, not thinking!"

"That," the gray-eyed werewolf smiled, "is the idea."

************************************************************ 

"You're not a's'posed to be out o' y're chair, per'fessor."

"Donaghan, do you know what this word is?" Cass pointed to a pad of paper with a single word scribbled on it.

"Na."

"That is 'bastard,' a seven-letter word beginning with the letter 'b' and it means my g-d brother-in-law."

"Wha' does 'g-d' mean?"

"Goddamn," Theodoric explained. "Mothuh says it about the Juniuh League and the President all the time." He lifted the chrome-plated pistol with the gold inlays in the grips from its' velvet case and began calmly loading it. Cass almost told him to put it down, but when she realized he had opened it properly and had it pointed away from humans she changed her mind. Donaghan, not wanting to disobey, but neither wanting to be left out, fetched the thick leather cowboy belts with the holsters and began unbuckling them. Cass tied her neckscarf and held her arms up, allowing the little Scot to attach her gunbelts. He was very fascinated by cowboy films, and they were almost the only part of her war-gear Donaghan was allowed to touch. For all his youth, he wasn't a bad squire to her crazy knight.

"Not t'be rude, per'fessor, but they don' hang right like Doc Holliday's."

"Doc Holliday was a guy," Theo pointed out, examining the ornate outer buckle. "He's right, though. You're getting a gut, Auntie Cassandra."

"Am not." Cass sighed. "I got what your mom calls a bad case of pregnancy." Since being around the boys, her mild Pittsburgh accent had thickened in response to their Southern and Scottish speech. They stared blankly at her. "Nevermind."

"Y'all gon' have a baby, Aunt?" Theo asked, amazed.

"Yep."

"A laddie?" Donaghan asked hopefully.

"Naw, a girl one."

"I can be her big brother," Theodoric observed. "An' Donnie can marry her, an' then you can 'ave grandchildren."

"Why in the name of humanity would I want…why don't _you_ marry her?"

"I'm going to marry anothuh 'pure-blood' an' raise lib'ral-minded children."

"Are you really?" Cass asked sarcastically. "Has it occurred to you that my daughter's a pure-blood, too?"

"Yeah, but she's like my sistuh, 'cause you're my auntie."

"She's _my_ per'fessor," Donaghan protested. 

"But y're a Scot. Auntie Cass is a Yankee –well, sorta. I'm supposed ta' marry a girl from England, since my daddy married an American."

"I don't want to get married ta' anyone," Donaghan announced. "I'm on'y three."

"Well, Ah'm five. When yuh get olduh, things change."

For some reason, this conversation struck Cass as immensely funny.

"When did you get married, per'fessor?" Donaghan inquired.

"I was almost twenty-two."

"See?"

"Hey, it wasn't _my_ idea," Cass pointed out. 

"How _did_ Uncle John ask yuh?" Theodoric asked, slipping her left pistol into its' holster.

"That's a long story…"

********************************************************** 

Mel staggered over to the swirling dish, left out of a cabinet. She hadn't meant to pass out at the Shrieking Shack, but enough firewhiskey to fell a hippogriff sometimes acted fast. Before she could get downstairs, however, a whirling, glowing potion in the dish had distracted her. 

_"Wha-fuck?"_

The Pensieve quickly pulled the false Southerner into its' memories once she touched the shimmering fluid. Mel, having once looked into her father's, glanced to her right and left. Sure enough, there was a dark-haired teenager with a familiar face. She wore some kind of bizarre armor, and evidently had been in battle, as blood ran over the white chestplate from a wound.

"Coach, can I 'ave some aspirin?"

"Not 'til the referee sees this." A solidly built, tough-looking man in a windsuit jacket motioned a man in a striped shirt over. "Lookit that. Cassie's all cut to hell by that foul. Damn regulation pads jes' ain' worth shit fa' girls."

Cass Tyler had been injured in a war? 

"S'ar'right, Coach, I'm just-" The tough man loosened the armor and the younger Cass winced. "Aaoooww!"

"I'll take care of it," the referee promised, walking off. Outside the almost-dark room, Mel could hear the man calling something about offensive fouls and penalty shots. The younger Cass managed a weak smile and Coach patted her shoulder.

"It's gon' be okay, Cassie. I reckon we won't get any more crap about 'regulation junior hockey pads' on girl players." The man's scorn was evident in his voice, but he seemed very proud of the little Auror-to-be. It was _hockey_, not battle, Mel realized. "Foul or not, that was some damn good defense. Worth the scar."

"Goddamn knockers screw up everything," the little Cass growled irritably.

"Well, better you've got 'em than not," Coach observed, going a little redder than usual. "I mean, i'may make hockey pads a bitch, but I'm sure there'll be times when you'll see their usefulness."

"Sure, Coach." Cass didn't sound that sure.

"Well, when you get married, for instance. Can't look good in a wedding gown without…those."

"I don't intend to be _married,"_ Cass protested. "Marriage is inefficient, a senseless convention of the bourgeoisie."

"Well, then, where the heck are my new goalies coming from? You gonna have kids, Cassie?"

"Not if I can help it. Children are beastly, annoying things."

"My thoughts precisely sometimes, kid." Coach joined his star goalie on the locker room bench, opening a first-aid kit for her wounds. "So you're going to live alone and keep fifty-hundred cats?"

"I plan to write scandalous novels and take several lovers, like George Sand."

"Erm…_okay_…"

"And when I'm dead, my money shall be given to endow a new library and several scholarships for the children of impoverished professors."

"An' will you be dying of consumption in a Paris garret?"

"If I can possibly manage it," Cass grinned jokingly before sighing. "I just don't see the _point_ of men."

"Well, they're splendid right wings, but for goalie, you need a girl."

Mel couldn't recall when she had laughed so hard. The most direly enamored person she'd ever known, renouncing men, marriage and family at age thirteen…It was a funny sight. The memories swirled and suddenly she found a much older Cass at a desk, reading aloud from a paperback novel:

"_'Passion swirled and engulfed the pair, with waves of need closing over them until the sea of longing crashed against the cliffs of romance in a blinding finish that made both see stars…' _honestagawd, per'fessor, who _wrote_ this shit?"

"Some housewife named Ethel or Ermengarde, likely. I'm just the cover illustrator." The professor, who perched cross-legged on his own desk behind a sketchpad, had a familiar voice. Mel found herself instantly enthralled. "Read me the next bit?"

"Okay." Cass reopened the book. "_'As Devon collapsed onto Sophia's shivering body, she felt a completeness, a closeness no touch had ever given her.'_ Well, no shit, Sophie, he just flopped on ya…"

"Do you believe in love?" the professor asked. Cass looked up suddenly.

"What?"

"Love. You sound like you don't believe in it." There was a long silence.

"Alright, maybe I don't. Love is almost as overrated as the orgasm."

"Have you ever had either?

"What are you, the male lead in a porn movie? No, I've never been in love. Okay?"

"Yet you don't believe in it."

"Why the hell should I? My father was mortally in love with my mom, but look what happened there. You fall in love, you get hurt. It's just easier not to care."

"What happened to your mom?"

"She died. What's the deal, anyway?"

"I just hate to see someone like you not believe in love."

Mel knew where she had heard that voice!

"What d'you mean, someone like me? A witch? An Auror? Someone with dark hair? Irish?" 

John Tyler set down the sketchpad and closed the distance between himself and his student.

"Someone so inutterably beautiful."

Cassie Alcott smiled cleverly and placed a hand on her professor's shoulder before kissing him gently on the lips. A second later, she looked at him and shrugged.

"See? Nothing. If you don't believe in it, it doesn't exist."

"It doesn't, eh?" John appeared to consider this. "Well…in the interests of proper argument, don't you think we should try that just once more?"

"If you like," Cassie replied airily, leaning close again. John turned his head at the last second, stopping her. "What?"

"Just…try it my way. For epistemology's sake."

"Okay."

"Stand up." Cass disentangled her legs from the desk and stood, clearly expecting her professor to do the same, but instead he raised one of his knees. "Here." Taking her hand, he lowered the female to perch on his knee, then set her hand on his shoulder. "Don' be scared, Cassie." He took her other hand in his and kissed it, then claimed her lips as it became abundantly clear nobody ever had before. A small sound of protest escaped her, but after a few seconds, it became more of a moan –and not in the slightest way protesting. John stopped the kiss only after Cassie's arms had somehow found their way to his shoulders, and he looked at her quizzically. "Still nothing?"

"You cheater. That's lust, not love…"

"Oh, _lust?"_ The werewolf raised an eyebrow. Seconds later, he had swept the girl off her feet and carried her over to his desk. He cleared it with a sweep of his arm and lay Cassie on top of it, kissing her ferociously on lips, neck, and even undoing the collar of the guys' shirt she wore as he sought lower ground to cover. "_This_ is lust, Cassie." Soon she was responding just as ferociously, and what little was left on the desk soon found itself on the floor. All too abruptly, they stopped, and John kissed Cassie's hand again. "I've no use for lust. I want love from you."

"I don't believe in it."

"I do. And I love you, therefore it must exist." One more kiss, and then the professor stood up and headed for the door. "I'm sure you'll come around."

Mel could practically feel the rage emanating from her friend's younger self as the door closed gently. As Cassie Alcott began to curse, she stared in wonderment.

"Damn the man!" A book hit the wall. "Bloody, buggered, goddamn _bad_ dishy werewolves-!" She threw another book. "_And_ their kisses, _and_ drawings _and_-" She saw the sketchpad. "Oh, bloody hell." 

Drawn in various positions on the page, instead of the pre-sketches of a bodice-ripper cover, was herself, arguing with the paperback as she read it aloud. "Aw, hell, have I got it bad…"

It was somewhere about that point that Mel began laughing so hard the Pensieve spat her back out.

************************************************************ 

"A life without love, that's terrible," Donaghan observed in his Scottish accent.

"Well, fortunately, I've changed my mind since then…"

"You were a stupid teenage git, Auntie."

"Erm…yes…"

"But here's your coat anyway."

"That's better." Cass lifted the long, black garment and swung it on. After adjusting the lapels, she looked to the little boys. "Well?"

"Yeh need somethin'." 

"A hat?" Theodoric retrieved a nicely broken-in black Stetson and climbed onto a chair to place it on his professor's head. "Tha's better."

"Na' jes' that…" Donaghan fetched a tartan sash, in an interesting pattern of blue, gold, and white. Was it actually two years since John had worn it with dress robes to the Yule Ball at Hogwarts? The little Scot tied it around her waist above the gunbelt and it gave a very nice, kind of Scottish-cowboy appearance. "I think tha's it." Cass checked the mirror.

"I look like a refugee from a John Wayne movie."

"But nice."

"Well, okay."

"Take some food with you?" Theodoric suggested. He opened the Mickey Mouse lunchbox and retrieved the foil-wrapped burger he had made earlier that evening, slipping it into the coat's pocket. 

"Thanks, Theo."

"Where you goin', anyways?" Donaghan inquired.

"Oh, noplace," the professor remarked idly. "Birnam Wood's going to Dunsinane."

************************************************************** 


	60. History Doth Forgive Much

Chapter Sixty: History Doth Forgive Much

_The following is taken from the recent poet Andronicus Diggle's play _'At War,' _part five. Diggle, critics have often claimed, was more zealous in trying to emulate the work of Shakespeare and Marlowe than of accurately portraying history, and it has well been said that he was grievously premature in the composition and performance of his opus. Indeed, when his play of the war against the Dark first premiered, no less than twelve of the historical characters portrayed in it were not only still alive, but actually present and in the expensive seats offered by the director–all but the offspring of several principles, who favored the balcony that they might watch in the company of friends. The play, while considered a success in terms of verse and drama, was, to put it mildly, laughed to scorn by the critics and most viewers for it's historical laughability. Diggle was reported to have been gravely disappointed by the play's reception, in spite of some very kind letters attributed to Mrs. Granger-Snape and Mrs. Weasley the elder, and decided to embark on an opus detailing the first war against the Dark, reasoning being that fewer people would remember it._

_ After the critical laughability of _'At War,'_ however, the only theatrical company willing to perform his new work at the time was the drag show at the Sticky Lick under the direction of its' finest master to date, Madam Blaise Zabini. In this gender-reversed production, Mr. Draco Malfoy received astonishing reviews for his performance as his own mother. Similar plaudits were awarded Ms. Cho Chang, who in what many feel was the most appropriate send-off to a hated villain was cast as Voldemort himself. 'To put it as politely as possible,' wrote journalist Maggie Skeeter, 'she made Moldy-Voldy look like California fresh fruit with a side of chips.' But we digress. The following scene is quoted from Diggle's play to give a sense of the early perception of the war's events. The play was written _before_ certain revelations were made to the public, and _after_ others, which make some lines unfortunate to the point of laughability. And finally, despite being so wildly inaccurate as to be absurd, it made we, the editors, cry. So we put it in. From Part Five, Act One, scene two:_

LONGBOTTOM: Professor, wherefore don you thy silver swords?  
The arms of men are best in comp'ny borne  
And thou alone, i' spite thy honest ire  
May fall unmarked, or else in snare be wire'd  
Lean wolves do fight their finest within th' crowd or pack  
And so, Tyler, I pray thee, come thou back.

CASSANDRA: Prithee, Neville, cease thy pleadings  
Such fears d'not become such things  
When forth a soldier marches it is courage thou should speak  
My heart is forward gone to battle  
And in fury am I weak  
I'll heed no sigh, no barrier, no halt to my great rage  
For now my hand doth twitch to murder  
This, the evil of our age _(Departs.)_

LONGBOTTOM: The days are strange when forth our teachers  
Go to battle with our foes  
And neither clerkly men, but ladies  
Though ne'er wore she skirt or hose  
I thought Cassandra but slight childish  
Wore she bluejeans and t-shirts  
Yea, this war doth spin the mildest  
And turn jests to foulest oaths _(Exit.)_

Scene three: a moldy dungeon. Enter Draco to where Pansy is chained. 

DRACO: Speak, thou capture'd spy and liar  
Yet be not false, for thee I knew  
When but a shy and trembling child  
First her wand timidly drew  
My friend you were, not long ago  
When but youths were we, and small  
If thou couldst fall and join the evil  
There is little hope at all

PANSY: Call me a spy? Thou art a traitor  
To thy father and thy class  
You have scorn'd thy lady mother  
And become the jester ass  
Is pure blood now so devalue'd  
Are thy veins no longer blue  
That like a dog to ancient Albus  
You have turned and lick'd his shoe

DRACO: Pure blood? I scorn to call it  
Purity in virtue lies  
Not in snob'ry, nor in evil  
See, now my blood I do despise  
Observe how calmly I pronounce  
The name of loathsome Voldemort  
You cringe? I mention but your master  
For I percieve thou art his whore

PANSY: You speak wiser than thou know'st, Draco  
And yet, 'twas not with scorn  
See thou the bruises on my shoulders  
And the slashes on mine arm?  
If you can offer me a trade-off  
Oh, thou prince of Slytherin  
Let me see my tormentor gutted  
And to wise Albus will I turn

DRACO: What tormentor do you speak of?

PANSY: The name you spoke, and but some others  
One of two that with you march'd  
Through the halls of hallowed Hogwarts  
Despite idiots they were

DRACO: It is Crabbe, thou clearly mention  
I already owe'd him death for death  
I do not trust you by, but haply  
Thou wilt prove thy intent yet

It should be obvious to the reader how many errors Diggle had. For one thing, Cassandra Tyler did not use swords, but guns. In her journal and to friends she mentioned being bitterly lacking in fencing ability, to the point where despite her admiration for the art, she would sooner watch it that join in. Also, no werewolf uses silver implements if they can possibly manage it. It makes 'em nauseous, for chrissakes. The exchange between she and Neville is reasonably plausible apart from that, but the scene with Draco and Pansy is considered one of the true dramatic jewels of the piece. Pansy's shame, confessed to Draco, was heartrending from the first production, and despite admitting that he doesn't and can't quite trust her, his words are always gentle. The viciousness with which Pansy demanded her abusers killed is said to be very true to life, and according to Mr. Malfoy himself, 'gutted' is the mildest of the things that she really said.

_Below is the play's great soliloquy; the part that we said made us cry, in which Mr. Snape wonders if and why he can live without his kidnapped lover. It's especially heartrending in context, even if the real Mr. Snape had left the auditorium to play poker in the lounge with Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy during this part of the play. His wife liked it, and his daughters, and his son, we think, was asleep. The two scenes preceding were rather dull, tactical foreshadowing in scene four and hack-job comic relief in scene five. The actors couldn't do American or American Southern accents to save their lives. But anyway, the emotions evoked by Mr. Diggle's verse were, we felt, a good addition to our account._

Scene six: Severus' chambers. Enter Severus, awakening in a chair.

SEVERUS: Do my dreams again come forth to wound me?  
Fie, again I dream'd of war  
My love is stol'n, my friends are arming  
Live I still? And sooth, wherefore?  
Were it my sadness rule'd my body  
I would fein not live anymore  
Wherefore doth any man his sad soul plaiting  
With another's, tie in love?  
A man of warlike wit and raven cloak  
Becomes a man of peace, a dove  
If then the fates decree his love lost  
His suffering knows no bounds, no ends  
His ache no balm save sleeping liquor  
No distraction save two friends  
It is odd that Friar Lawrence has a sort of Juliet  
Nay, she is Viola, she is Beatrice, she is love!  
I miss her yet!  
I long but for a whisper'd word  
Her voice to hear again  
I'd have her sigh, her smile, her homework  
Yet my cries are all in vain  
Pour I a dram of sweet escaping  
A potion brew'd to call back dreams  
So that in my memory's landscaping  
I can have what like her seems _(pours a cup and drinks)  
_A toast to you, my absent lady  
I adored you then and do so still  
I'd give my life to buy your safety  
For you I love and always will  
_(falls asleep.)_

****************************************************** 

A/N: Short chappie, I know, but more Sevvy than of late and a sweet Draco scene. Next chapter to be struck with Eponine's Disease!


	61. Knowledge and Belief

Chapter Sixty-One: Knowledge and Belief

There were spells a mediwitch could use to reduce swelling, to contract tissues, to regenerate flesh so that no scar would ever show. There were anesthetics, contraction-inducers, and even pulse accelerants and decelerants. The Transpareo Illusia charm could indicate signs of birth progression, infant distress, or even the baby's facial expression during the birth process. It was safer for a witch to have a baby now than a Muggle, and the Muggles were down to the tiniest imaginable chance of childbirth mortality –one out of five thousand, approximately. 

These statistics, however, were not the slightest bit comforting.

To put it in the mildest way imaginable, Narcissa was scared stiff. Nursing a pregnant prisoner was one thing, actually delivering a baby was quite another. For some horrible reason, Lucius and Pettigrew had elected to take the poor girl off the mind-numbing solutions about five hours after the first contractions began, so that Narcissa lived in terror not only of complications, but that Hermione might wake up in the midst of what she knew from personal experience was the number one Not Fun Activity. If she had a wand, she would have not only used a Body-Bind and several of her sister's best hexes on both men, but Apparated herself and the girl directly to St. Mungo's. She wasn't prepared for this. Delivering babies was not martini-slugging lazy women's work. It was a job for cold-fingered Healers in paper masks and hippie nurses who waved incense and talked about the New Life Coming Forth. They didn't mention the various solids and liquids that accompanied said new life, but judging from how Lucius had fainted dead away before Draco's birth, Narcissa wanted no part of it. 

A soft mewling sound escaped the Dark's prisoner.

Ohhh…crap…

"Kid, you awake?" Narcissa prayed she wasn't. 

"Owww…" She was.

_"Lucius!" _To her surprise, her husband actually came running. "You _filthy_ sonofabitch, if you don't knock her out _right_ now, you are never getting laid again and I'm not talking about my withholding it!" Again to her surprise, Lucius drew his wand and began an anesthetic spell. Pettigrew, the sorry little rat, had scurried along into the room and Narcissa restrained herself from hurling a very large potted plant at his head. "_You!_ _Mouse-boy!_ I want you to boil as much water as possible. Lucius, go sterilize three white sheets –the softer the better." Two other Death Eaters, just pulling their masks off, had appeared where Pettigrew had just run away. Taking charge, she spared no one from commands. "Get me scissors, white string, as many rolls of paper towels as you can find, and in the name of God get those filthy robes the hell out of here! Lucius, what the fuck took so long? Help me with the sheet –is this the best you could find? Get me a fucking _house-elf_, you _useless_ nit. No, there isn't time! Shut _up_, you titanic asshole, I'm not using the rat for an orderly. Right there. Perfect."

"What precisely are we doing?" the aristocrat gasped, looking at his normally indolent wife in fear.

"We are delivering this baby and woe betide you if you try so much as a levitation spell on the kid. Hand me the other sheet. Holy crap, that's another contraction."

"Should…she be unconscious?"

"Would you risk the alternative? Shock?"

"Well, she'd be surprised, but-"

"You _fool!_ Medical shock! Could kill her flat-out."

"Well…what about the whole 'pushing' thing?"

"Astonishing, you remember a little of how this works. I'm going to take care of that with a transpareo illusia and a manipulation charm. Unless you want to attempt it yourself, give me your fucking wand and check the kid's pulse."

"No need to curse."

"Lucius, there are few times in the history of humanity when cursing has _ever_ been so appropriate!"

*************************************************************** 

"You are going to drop your wand. You are going to put your hands in the air. You are surrendering."

Draco's voice, when he wanted it to be, was as threatening as his father's. Crabbe's hands, shook, but he didn't relinquish the wand.

"You're not a Death Eater. I don't have to-"

"You are dropping your wand, putting your hands in the air, and surrendering." Crabbe dropped his wand and Pansy sprang forth to catch it as it fell. Draco caught her arm gently, not wanting her to take vengeance too rashly. Yet just as she leaned and captured Crabbe's wand, the thick-witted wizard caught her jaw with a stunning kick. She sprawled backward toward Draco and a little blood ran between her lips. Draco knocked Crabbe back with a blow across the face –using the hand that held his gun. With his former friend incapacitated by that, spitting out a few yellow teeth, Draco bent slightly and helped Pansy up.

"You alright?"

"Yeh." There was still a little blood coming from her mouth, and with an indelicate but swift movement, she spat it in Crabbe's face. "Bastard, did you think you were anything?"

"Tell me what you know, Vincent." Draco spoke in a firm voice, neither commanding nor imploring. "I won't lie and say you can absolve your guilt in this, but you may be able to lessen the consequence of your folly by turning back from the Dark before it's too late."

The gun he held wasn't really his. It was one of the curiosity pieces that the Professors Tyler used in training and occasionally as light field arms –only twenty-two caliber, but large, very shiny and very long of barrel; definitely more show than power. Draco had chosen it from the cabinet for two reasons. One, he was more likely to need show than power. If at all possible, he did not want to fire it, and indeed, hadn't even checked to see whether it was loaded and with what. And two, perhaps the more embarrassing of the reasons, he had only fired a handgun twice.

"Your father and mother aren't here," Crabbe hissed. 

"Where?" Pansy growled.

"You'd remember, you-"

The whole thing took less than a split second. There was only one clue, and that was an impossibly slight tightening of Crabbe's eyes toward Draco. Pansy, being a child of the Serpents' Den, caught it and leapt, just ahead of the knife.

_"Pansy!" _

Draco saw her fall again, this time flat on her back at his feet, with a dark handle sticking out of her shirt. 

He did not hesitate. 

The gun bucked in his hand, once, and then twice. Three bullets. One, he could see, had hit his old friend in the shoulder or the heart, going by the blood that sprung forth suddenly and horribly. He stood for just a moment in horror at the entire situation, then knelt at Pansy's side.

"Pansy, are you…?"

It was senseless to ask. There was so much blood, and that horrible dark handle, just under her left collarbone. With a grace never lent to her during life, Pansy raised a hand and touched Draco's cheek. 

She didn't speak. It would have just been pain for both of them. But she smiled softly, and Draco recognized that face. 

It was the face of a little girl who had gotten on at King's Cross almost eight years ago and been so happy to see someone she knew that she had hugged him. It was the look of a preschooler who had reluctantly given up on trying to make Blaise Zabini and himself play tea party while their mothers talked, but not shown any less fervor in a game of pretend-Aurors. It was the look of a fifth-year who had offered him her own lucky ribbon for O.W.L.s, tying it around his wrist under his cuff not out of any volition but good will. 

He hadn't seen that look in so long. And now Pansy would wear it forever. Before she could leave him, Draco bent and kissed her, on the lips and then the forehead, as if to say goodnight. His heart was breaking, but there was nothing anyone could have done. She smiled and shut her eyes. She was free.

"Good god."

The voice was soft, but Draco would know it anywhere. He didn't turn.

"Professor-?"

Instead of a reply, there was a shot. He looked up wildly and saw Cass Tyler, a smoking gun in her hand and a tear streaking down toward a clenched-teeth fury. 

"You hit Crabbe in the guts and arm. The neck or heart is a lethal mark." The Auror crouched and took off her hat, looking sadly at what had been Pansy. "Horrible."

"She brought me here…Crabbe threw the knife at me."

"I never gave her enough credit," the professor muttered, "but she'll be remembered as what she became, not how they treated her." Undoing the scarf around her waist and spreading it out, Cass let Draco cover the fallen girl. With a Muggle ballpoint and a bit of wallpaper torn from their somewhat bleak surroundings, she began writing something. "Draco, what's her full name?"

"Alicia Bellatrix Parkinson…everyone called her Pansy."

"'Turned sides for the Light, posthumous Captaincy.' That should settle any doubt." She scribbled her familiar signature, and taking the cord that held her badge and drawing it from her collar, Cass undid the knot and slid the badge off, tying the scrap of paper like a tag around Pansy's wrist. "S'the best I can do to make up for how I treated her."

"How did-?"

"Just like any dumb pureblooded Slytherin –with contempt. Maybe if someone had just listened, or maybe offered her a chance…"

"I don't think she had a chance from day one." Draco hastily drew a sleeve across his eyes. "Is Crabbe-?"

"Yes. If it makes you feel any better…she didn't suffer. He…did."

"But you finished it."

"I couldn't let you believe you killed him."

"Thanks." Draco breathed hard and stood up. "My parents aren't here. I think they may have her at Godric's Hollow."

"The car's outside. Is there anyone else around?"

"No."

"I'll be right there."

Draco took one last look at Pansy's covered form and left. Cass watched him go out of the corner of her eye and then strode over to Crabbe. The little bastard had used a spring-loaded wrist holster to hide the knife Draco had had to pull out of Pansy's chest. Apart from the four bullets, it was the only metal on him. 

Draco's second shot had punctured the liver and Cass knew it. Hers had been into the heart of a dead body. 

*************************************************************** 


	62. One Night Before The Storm

Chapter Sixty-Two: One Night Before the Storm

"There's spare clothes in the back," Cass told Draco, hopping into the front seat and pulling her black hat back on. As he jumped over the seat to change, she started the engine and headed for the road. "Alright, tell me that bit again. Where the hell have they got her?"

"Godric's Hollow. There's a house near the Potters' that looks ruined but isn't."

"Why do people always assume that's the last place we'll look?"

"Because it usually is, and there's so much residual magic there it makes anything hard to trace."

"The word 'usual' doesn't apply to you an' me, Draco." 

"No, I guess it doesn't." The blonde climbed back over the seat a few minutes later and looked quizzically at the stereo buttons. "Can we put something on? I'm nervous as hell."

"My thoughts exactly."

Draco had been on enough rides in Dingo to know where the CDs and bizarre homemade tapes were kept. "Something relaxing?"

"Anger's fuel, little bro."

"Good point." As Draco slid the burned CD-R marked 'Fury Music' into the deck, Cass realized her slip. Fortunately, Draco seemed to have missed the inappropriate term of endearment, or perhaps considered it honorary. The first song began: 'Higher Ground' by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. "You burned this one?"

"John did."

"Oh." Draco looked at the list, typed inside the slim CD case. "Can't say it looks like his."

"I'd imagine Mel helped a bit…_'Teachers, keep on teachin'_…'

"_'Preachers, keep on preachin,'_"

"_'World, keep on turnin…'_" Draco grinned. "I can see how you messed with Aunt Bellatrix."

"Rock an' roll doth feed the soul."

There was a sound like artificial thunder and some crashing organ.

"_'Hi. We're your weather girls…'_"

"What the fuck?" Cass inquired in shock. She and Draco listened for a few seconds, during which the infectious disco beat and absurd lyrics became clear. "_'It's Raining Men'_? Of _all_ fucked-up songs…"

"He's _your_ husband."

"_This_ is supposed to feed the fury within?"

"What next? The Spice Girls?"

"Draco, don't tempt the fates…"

"_'When you're feeling sad and low, we will take you where you gotta go…'"_

"Holy crap."

"I can't believe I'm reproducing with this person." In spite of her sarcastic comment, Cass was going furiously red. Draco gave her an accusing glance.

"Whose CD was this from?"

"Err…mine."

"Then the rumors are true!"

"What rumors?"

"That the deep dark secret Pansy didn't know when she was pretending to be Hermione…you were into roller disco as a kid!"

"Who on earth would start such an absurd rumor?"

"Luna Lovegood. She found this Web site…"

"Utter rot. Why, there's no way imaginable…" Cass looked at Draco's knowing grin and sighed. "Alright, we all had youthful follies. Look at Severus."

"From fifth grade to graduation?"

"Draco, I was young and…" Cass went a little redder, but smiled. "I was also really good."

"At roller disco?"

"Yes. It's one of the skills you don't learn at Auror academy."

"Professor Cass, I can see _why_ that's such a deep, dark secret."

"Why?"

"Because it doesn't fit you at all. You're the wild, scary American, sent to reprogram the children of Death Eaters –not the secret Spice Girl freak who's into roller disco." A mischievous look cracking across her face, Cass looked over her half-brother.

"Want to try it sometime?"

"Sure! Mom loves disco, and I…" It was now Draco's turn to go red. "I sorta think it's fun to dance to."

"Wait'll you try it with quads on."

"Quads?"

"Roller skates, two in front, two in back."

"Don't you wear rollerblades?"

"Those're unsuited for dancing. Peasant skates."

"When this is all over, we're going to have some fun times."

"Totally."

"Wait'll you see Uncle Severus on skates."

_"What?!"_

"Just joking. I'm sure he'd learn roller disco for your sake, Sis."

Cass caught his term of endearment and felt it far more keenly than he had hers.

"Are you cold with the top down? It is January, after all."

"The heater's going. Only thing is the wind messing up my hair."

"Always the glamour boy."

"How the heck is your hat staying on?"

"It's charmed to…and it's also John's." Cass removed the offending black object and set it in the back over her shoulder.

"Because you look like a cowboy from hell."

"Shut up…you look like you've been raiding Procol Harum's clothes pile."

"Who?"

"Oh, never mind. You look like a classic rock refugee." Draco looked critically at the white Renaissance-cut shirt with the laces and pointed collar and the black leather vest that matched the pants he had worn to go take Crabbe down in. 

"I think I look pretty damn good, considering these're your husband's clothes."

"Don't be too sure of that."

"Good god!" Draco looked at the very sexy vest and shirt, frowning. "You have transvestite issues."

"Hey, pair that with a skirt and it's incredibly feminine."

"When do _you_ wear a skirt?"

"Never in _public_, Draco dear." Cass's grin was arch. "That shirt is also incredibly comfy for, -erm…_sleeping_ in."

"Well, when it comes to perversion, you wrote the book."

"Co-wrote. And there's nothing wrong with wearing guys' shirts to bed, long as you wash 'em afterwards."

"You did, right?"

"Nope. Robby did. The house-elf who crochets doilies on order."

"Are we going to kill my father?" Draco asked suddenly, as if the question had been on his mind, and it couldn't stay in any longer. Cass looked earnestly at him, holding the wheel tightly, and shook her head.

"S'not my place, even if my job does allow it."

"Am I, then?"

"Draco, that's up to you. If he attacks, I'll defend, but I don't want that …man dead by my hand."

"You don't want guilt?"

"I don't want to tell your mom it was me. That, and death by my hand is too good for his sort, in some ways. I want him to live a long, long time, and see all the ill he wrought turn to good."

"Can it?" Draco looked at his own hands, and Cass thought of the little feeling, sort of like bubbles, that hit her when John or Severus spoke, or when she sang. It occurred to her that the feeling also happened sometimes when Draco talked, or when they sang along with the stereo together.

"I think it can."

************************************************************************* 

"What is…?"

"A baby girl," Lucius said in a hushed voice, holding the squalling little creature up in the sheet as if she might at any moment sprout wings and flutter off. "Should she be this…?"

"Small? I think so." Narcissa added another painkiller spell to the nearly palpable force field of various enchantments on the unfortunate young mother. Unfortunately, this one woke her up a little. 

"Owwww…"

There was a sound of rushing feathers and strange, unearthly song. As the red bird landed near the girl's shoulder, Narcissa felt a strange tug at her heart. 

"Fawkes?" Hermione asked drowsily. As the bird crooned its' healing song, both mother and baby fell asleep within seconds, leaving only the Malfoys to watch the magical creature in their midst.

"Dumbledore's phoenix." It was a mark of his corruption that Lucius actually seemed afraid of the bird. Narcissa reached out her hands, dropping the wand wordlessly, and he, still staring at the now gently crying bird, handed the child over. "What do you-?"

"Fawkes, look." Narcissa held the baby near the phoenix's beaky face. "It's a girl." The handsome red bird bent his graceful neck and touched the little palm with his beak in a strange, but universal gesture of benediction. A little tear touched the baby's hand after rolling down its creator's beak, and Narcissa felt the tiny baby shrug in her wrappings. She made a little sound in her sleep, but did not wake. "Thank you, Fawkes."

"What did he mean by…?"

"I don't think we need to know." Narcissa held the tiny infant close and motioned to the now-dwindling pile of washed linens. "Find me something softer to wrap her in." Obediently, Lucius brought a soft sheet, folded quadruple, and with the practiced hand of a mother, Narcissa transferred the little one without waking her. "Take care of the cord, would you?" Going a bit ashen, Lucius used the most painless severing charm he knew on the tiny, round stomach. He hadn't had occasion for it, outside of strings and tangles shoelaces, since Draco's pet Crup. As an afterthought, he cleaned the little creature off, letting the moist coat of hair sticking to her head become a nimbus of baby fluffiness. 

The baby's hair, he realized, was jet black. Looking closer, Lucius noticed something else.

"Narcissa…look." 

Following the trembling hand of her husband to the little, peaceful face, Narcissa smiled ruefully.

"Poor baby." The blond woman kissed Severus' daughter on her tiny forehead. Even twenty minutes from birth, the little girl's face showed the definite beginnings of a Snape nose. "Of all the features, you had to inherit _that_." As if displeased by this prediction, the baby snorted a little and opened newborn-blue eyes for just a moment, frowning. "_Gods_, you look like your daddy's girl. Lucius, would you-?" 

Almost smiling, Lucius pointed his wand at the child's arm. He had used the same spell on Draco nearly nineteen years before.

"_Ocularus revelatio_… Brown."

"Can you be a bit more specific?"

"Like her…mother's."

"Oh!" Narcissa kissed the little one again. "Well, that more than makes up for it. You won't be a conventional beauty, dear, but beauty you definitely will be. Your poor daddy in thirteen years' time."

"Narcissa…" Lucius watched his wife cuddle the infant, even as she ignored him, not wanting to hear the child's condemnation to be the heir of Voldemort. "I…I'm going to take her to Severus."

"You liar." It was spoken in a quiet voice.

"No, truly. He…he loves the girl, and their daughter will be precious to him as well." With an almost shaking hand, Lucius brushed the little Snape's hair out of her sleeping eyes. "You can take care of her while her mama gets better, with Severus, and then you can be Aunt Cissie while I earn back the right to call you my wife. Severus and…Hermione will love her and raise her to be very powerful, and Draco and …Cassandra will be her first teachers to avoid the Dark."

"You can call Cassandra by name now, I notice," Narcissa observed, calmly but distrustingly preparing a bottle of infant formula for the sleeping baby held in her left arm's crook. "And where will you be?"

"In Azkaban, or a Ministry reparations office. Let me try to earn you back."

"You can't undo the past."

"But I can try to atone for it. Please, just look at me, Narcissa. I love you. I always have. If the death eaters are the other side from you, I don't want to be on theirs."

"You're already my enemy."

"Narcissa, I would march into hell barefoot if it meant I could hold you again. What will it take to show you that…" 

The idea struck Lucius as he noticed his wand on the floor. Silently, he picked it up. Narcissa, fearing that he was using some ruse before trying a spell on the infant, did not turn, but stiffened. A split second later, she heard a mumbled Unforgivable, but felt none of the Cruciatus' pain. The strangled cry behind her was heartrending, but she hardened her soul in case it was another of Lucius' tricks. She heard the tray of medical implements clatter to the ground, then a sickening spurting sound. Finally, she turned, only to gasp in surprise.

"Every Death Eater on earth felt that," Lucius explained, showing his curse-blackened, stabbed forearm. Blood and what looked like venom or ink flowed from what had been the Dark Mark. Setting the little Snape baby down in a laundry basket of sheets, Narcissa knelt by her husband, finally eye to eye, and began to wrap a torn sheet around the wound. A single tear of hers, more incredulous than fearful, touched it, but Lucius did not wince. "I love you," he stated, lifting her chin with his free hand to look into her eyes. "More than life, more than freedom. More than my home, more than my country, more than my name. Life for life -"

"Love for love," Narcissa spoke with him, the long-estranged pair repeating what had been shockingly passionate wedding vows almost twenty-five years ago. "Giving, without measure. My life is you own as your love is mine. I ask no more, you give no less. Until time starts over and history is erased, until the hereafter becomes the past, forever, I am yours."

For one moment, for two hearts, Tom Riddle had never shown his sorry face in their lives.

******************************************************************* 

"Tomorrow, here, here, and here." Ginny pointed to a tactical drawing of Voldemort's most recent lair. "Lieutenant Pierce, how long will the wards and locking devices take?"

"Ten minutes tops with the cracksmen, eight with me." The door of the war room opened and Ginny's mother entered quietly.

"Quartermaster Weasley, how ready are the medical officers and provisions?"

"Five of St. Mungo's best and six from the German Aurorscheidt, three Swiss. The house-elves are making up plenty of field dressings and such, and I've seen to it that there are water bottles and chocolate chip cookies in everyone's knapsack."

"Er…thank you." The newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Weasley seriously doubted chocolate chip cookies were proper battle provisions, but decided quite wisely not to interfere. "Captain Lupin, how are our centaur friends?"

"Preparing, just as we are now."

"Good. Moody, are the Ministry Aurors here?"

"Present and accounted for."

"Lieutenant Watling, how goes the artillery?"

"The Machine is gearing up even as we speak. Without Colonel Tyler or Lance Corporal Malfoy, it goes slowly, but we should be ready when the signal comes."

"Corporal Thomas, how do the electronics stand?"

"The walkie-talkies are fine, but the long-distance radioes have a lot of magical static." Dean frowned. "Could we make do with speaking shells?"

"No magic in our communications. Cellular telephones?"

"No tower near the battlefield. Undependable."

"There are satellite telephones available," Lt. Watling pointed out. 

"Good. Watling, Tonks, get to London and get us enough for every officer above private. Gringotts vault number four hundred twenty, password is the ranking Lance Corporal's mother's middle name spelled backwards." That was why it was so vitally important that Tonks went. Narcissa was _her_ aunt, after all, and Ginny didn't quite know herself what the hell Narcissa Malfoy's middle name was. The funds-appropriation systems Bill had set up were just charmingly confusing enough to be safe. "Has anyone seen Prof- Captain Snape?"

"He's in his rooms," Harry explained.

"Leave him there. In fact, make sure he does _not_ get out. The enemy could hurt anyone with a Dark Mark who's within a quarter mile. It's not safe for him to go along. Has there been _any_ word from the AWOL officers?"

"We found a few co-conspirators," the Southern-inflected voice of Katie Scarlett Malfoy announced, bringing her son and Donaghan forward. 

"Alright boys, spill it," Ginny commanded. "Where the hell are they?" Donaghan frowned chastisingly.

"You're not a's'posed to say tha' i' front o' us. We're little." 

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, Auntie Cassandra lit out of here around seven o'clock yesterday." Theodoric frowned. "I admit that Mr. McPhersen here and I did have a hand in helping her to do so."

"Did she say where she was going?" Ginny asked, a little more kindly.

"She said Birnam Wood was goin' to Dunsinane. Tha's in Scotland," Donaghan explained, "near my grandda's castle."

"It's also Shakespeare," Salazar Malfoy observed. "From '_Macbeth_.' What was that hostage's first name –the one Severus was working with?"

"Hermione, why?"

"Also Shakespeare. From _'The Winter's Tale.'_" The pureblood British turned Southern aristocrat frowned thoughtfully. "Considering it _is_ winter, is it possible she and my nephew've gone to rescue her?"

"But the Birnam Wood-?"

"Cassie's American and Draco's British," Katie Scarlett clarified. "The forces that marched through Birnam Wood in that play included English foreigners who came to assist the Scottish cause."

"Not to mention Birnam Wood is one of the chief places for dragon sightings, historically."

"Okay," Ginny frowned. "Exactly how did all this Shakespeare stuff get into it?"

"It's Cassie, for chrissakes," Ringo Tyler grinned. "She loves freaky clues like this."

"As does Draco," Salazar added, smiling. "Those two could write mysteries." Ginny was beginning to look really desperate.

"Say they have, then. Any ideas how we can reach them before tomorrow? We need that Machine on-line!" 

The Tyler brothers shrugged. Everyone but the Southerners looked blank. It was Little Theodoric who finally spoke up:

"Call her cell-phone?"

************************************************************************* 


	63. Betrayal

Chapter Sixty-Three: Betrayal

"You're sleeping so nicely," Lucius told the infant girl. "I'm going to set you down in this drawer, since there's no crib, and if you don't mind not crying for about two hours or until you feel hungry, I'd appreciate it. Getting you born was hard work, you know." Narcissa smiled. Lucius had never been the sort to use baby talk, but the serious way he addressed tiny children as if they were adults seemed somehow even funnier. "What _are_ we going to call her?"

"Well, we can't very well name her –she isn't ours. But a nickname should do until her mummy and daddy think of a proper name."

"I'm not calling that child Beaky."

"Of course not. She's a girl. What position do you suppose she'll play?"

"At Quidditch? But she's a girl…"

"And you remember my record. Severus' daughter will likely be Slytherin's finest…whatever she chooses to play. Lucius, what _are_ you doing?"

"Checking her hands, like I did Draco's. Oh, yes, this baby is a Seeker, and then maybe a Chaser after her full height comes in."

"Don't think she'll be nearsighted?"

"I don't know. But look at those fingers…she's got me!" The tiny Seeker-baby had indeed grabbed Lucius' finger in her sleep. "Strong."

"I wonder how we break this news to Severus."

"Why not just have him hold her and after she's been precious for a few minutes, then we tell him."

"What if she spits up?"

"Well, she _is_ half-Muggle-born. You never know. How about _you_ tell him?"

"Coward." Narcissa tucked a blanket around the little one, who was quite placidly asleep in her open bureau drawer crib. "What a sweet baby."

"Is that brooding I hear?"

"No chance. I'm going to be the crazy aunt who showers this little darling with wildly expensive gifts and questionable advice…aren't I, lovely?" The Seeker-baby snorted in her sleep. "Already as sarcastic as your father. Heredity!"

"She'll inherit quite a legacy," Lucius observed, frowning. "Her father's a powerful wizard from an ancient family, and in spite of the obvious, her mother is reputed to be quite the intelligent. I wonder which house she'll be sorted into."

"Slytherin, of course," a weak-chinned voice remarked happily. "Like the Master. What a splendid heir."

"Get out, Wormtail!" Narcissa cried, waking the newborn girl. 

"Going to let your traitorous little strumpet talk to me like this?" Wormtail was answered with Lucius' fist across the jaw. "You…"

"_You_ are not going to touch this child."

"Why…Lucius…the infant…the Filius Replicatus…"

"Like hell! This is my friend's daughter and I'll be damned if you'll try to take her away from him!"

"A daughter?" Wormtail's already gray face began to get red and the silvery artificial hand quivered. "The Dark Lord has already made preparations. I will not disappoint our-"

"I am no servant!"

"You…traitor…" The Animagus stared at the blond man with something that edged on fury. "I should have known. This child won't _have_ a father inside of four hours! Severus' treason is proved and in the coming battle our Master will drain his life!"

"Coming battle? Don't you mean attack?" Narcissa grinned coldly. "Come _on_, mouseboy! The Light is more than prepared for any assault your pathetic remnants of a force could muster. Your men are either locked up, dead or useless, all from a handful of what you'd call mudbloods and foreigners and traitors."

"Like you."

"Precisely."

"Well, you know, Mrs. Malfoy," Wormtail observed, scratching his head with a seemingly absent gesture. "Traitors have to die."

The curse missed Lucius and sideswiped Narcissa's skull, knocking her to the ground. As Lucius caught his wife and quickly looked to examine the damage, Wormtail swept the infant up with on arm and was out the window on a broom before you could say 'rat poison'. For an instant Lucius was torn between friend's daughter in peril and injured wife.

He never had to decide, because at that moment the cavalry, so to speak, arrived.

"Put her down, Malfoy!"

"Mrs. Tyler, I-"

"Do as she says, Father." Draco's identical blue eyes met Lucius' own, and carefully, he lowered Narcissa to the floor. "Mother, are you-?"

"She's unconscious. Wormtail used some kind of curse…"

"Out of my way. Draco, cuff him." Cass knelt by the wounded witch and began things like checking her pulse. Lucius offered his wrists to his son without complaint.

"My wand is by the bed. Son, you have to know something. Voldemort is planning to use the Filius Replicatus spell and if somebody doesn't stop Wormtail from taking-"

"Draco, let him go."

"What?"

"Draco, undo the cuffs and give your dad his wand." Cass stood and with a word, levitated Narcissa onto an empty sofa. "You go do what you have to do to prevent whatever it is you said, and then you come back, Lucius Malfoy."

"Why are you trusting me?"

"Because." The American gestured to Narcissa. "She's our insurance that you'll be back. Don't think for one minute that Albus Dumbledore can stop a martial court from condemning her to your sentence if you aren't at Hogwarts gates by high noon tomorrow." The 'high noon' comment was only vaguely strange since Cass had abandoned the cowboy hat. "Besides, any Death Eater who can say 'Voldemort' is definitely off somewhere."

"Would this give you any more confidence?" Lucius pulled back his sleeve and removed the bandage Narcissa had made, starting the bleeding afresh.

"I didn't need any more. Does it help you, Draco?" Lucius realized the blond boy was staring at his arm with horror, bewilderment, and finally pride. He looked desperately at the young female beside his son.

"Does he know…?"

"I haven't told him," the Yank replied laconically. "Neither has your wife."

"Told me what?" Draco asked.

"Tell him if you want, Lucius. Or don't. It wouldn't change anything." In the sly grin of his illegitimate, ill-gotten daughter, Lucius realized instantly what she meant. Knowing who she was wouldn't change Draco's view or treatment of her, since she already was half a sister now.  He gasped slightly, and the werewolf smirked. "Now that that's settled, I suggest you get going, but first, _where the hell is Hermione?!"_

"In the bedroom next door. She's…she's not well. We –I've kept her unconscious."

"Good god. Draco, go get the cell-phone out of the glove compartment –it's under the CDs- and call five-one-eight, six-one-four, eight-seven-two-six. Tell Mel what's up, and then try to wake Hermione. I'm going to get Sevvy."

"What about my-"

"Taken care of already." Cass emptied a Ziploc containing one United States quarter onto Narcissa and the injured witch vanished. "Portkey to Madam Pomfrey's. They'll know who sent her. Go on, Lucius."

"I'll be back," the wizard promised, raising his wand to Apparate.

"Good luck… Father." Draco got the last word out just before his dad vanished, but judging from the surprised smile, Lucius had heard. "Eight-seven-two-six?" Draco asked, just to be sure, as he headed for the door behind the American.

"Perfect." Just as Cass got into the front seat, Draco looked in horror at the phone. "What?"

"Low battery and nine incoming messages."

"Bloody Muggle technology. See if you can find an owl and take care of Hermione 'til I get back." Cass put the key in the ignition and took out her wand. "I'm taking the Ron Weasley Hogwarts shortcut."

Draco didn't stop to wave as the car flew off.

********************************************************** 

"Stop right there!"

"Moody! We found-"

"I do not care! You are AWOL, Colonel, and in possession of a Class II illegal flying vehicle over protected airspace!"

"So fire me! We found Hermione!"

"Colonel Tyler, I'm afraid I will be forced to take you into custody to await your court-martial." Moody flew his broom closer to Dingo's front window and winked the electric blue magical eye. "Of course, you _can_ resist."

"Mad-Eye, old son, I swear, by tomorrow I will be labeled as the toughest resister to arrest you ever dealt with. Find me later and we'll make up the story of how I almost tried to kill you to get away." 

"Good girl! Best go and tell Albus." Cass kissed the grizzled old Auror on the cheek and flew onward toward Hogwarts, not even pausing to drop a paint balloon on the protected airspace of the captured Malfoy Manor. Few historians for many years realized that the legendary tale of the rogue Colonel stealing a car, enchanting it on the spot, bludgeoning Alastor Moody with a tire iron, stealing his broom and heading it toward Hogwarts while five months pregnant was complete and utter hippogriff shit. They did get one detail correctly, however. The five months' suspension from duty Colonel Tyler received was assigned by Brigadier General Moody to coincide directly with her prearranged six months' maternity leave that spring. Schedule control could be so convenient.

**************************************************** 

"Well?"

"She'll have some minor memory damage from the hex to the head, but it shouldn't be too bad, and the burn will heal easily with the correct potion. Really, once she finds out what she did the past week or so, the worst symptom will be waiting for her hair to grow back over the mark."

"Sounds like Narcissa," Andromeda Tonks observed. "Are you sure she'll only lose a week of memory?"

"It's rarely more than two years anyone loses with a hex like this, but a good month or so is average. Her mind may be fuzzy, but with potions and explanations, she should be right as rain."

"Will she be waking up-?"

"Andie!" Narcissa smiled at her sister cheerfully. "How's Baby 'Dora? …Ohhhhh…my head hurts like the _fires_…"

"There again, maybe more than a month or so. You may want to have her see a memory potion specialist or a Legilimens after we heal the burn."

"Burn?" Narcissa felt her head. "Oh, crap, right before the ball…"

"I know just the person," Andromeda reassured the Healer. "In the meantime, may we have some time alone?" As soon as the bustling little medic had shuffled out, the wildest of the Black sisters looked at the prettiest with a merry smirk. "Cissie, I'm only going to get one chance to say this and I'm going to enjoy it. Your hair looks like _hell!"_

************************************************** 

A/N: And in the next chapter: Sevvy's Hangover Is Interrupted


	64. Tree Falls in a Forest

Chapter Sixty-Four: Tree Falls in a Forest

_"Sevvy!"_

"Why the _hell_ do you _yet_ persist in calling me by that _ridiculous_ name, Cassandra?" Snape bellowed, rubbing his eyebrows as if trying to get them to come off. "Has it never occurred to you that some people enjoy _sleep_ at three in the morning, as opposed to willful disordering of traffic markers in an illegal car for fun? Simply because _you've_ given up liquor doesn't mean the rest of us can't get good and hung!"

"First of all, it's three in the afternoon, second, you could just take a potion for hangover, and third, Draco an' I found Hermione." Severus continued to rant, ignoring Cass' calm announcement.

"If you're going to interrupt me with loudness and absurd nicknames, you could at least have something important for an excuse –_you what?!"_

"Yeah, you'd best change out of those pajamas. See you in five minutes." Cass slammed the door, turned around, and began to laugh her lycanthropic American head off. That was so satisfying! Just as the guffaws melted into giggles, she looked up and saw a frowning face dark with five o' clock shadow and impatience. "Oh…hi, dear."

"Do I really _want_ to know where you were?" John asked, mixing Wolfish and human speech horribly as he scowled. Cass understood perfectly and smiled coquettishly.

"Finding Hermione with Draco." She kissed her husband's cheek, ignoring his unkemptness. "We just _loved_ the CD you burned."

_A peculiarity of the Wolfish language is that while many of its' phrases, common usages, and terms translate readily into somewhat long-winded English, there are others which all speakers, native or taught, agree are unexplainable. Such a type of phrase is what ordinary humans call a kiss. Wolves, being pack animals, commonly lick each other in affection or with other such emotion, and certain types of licking vocabulary manifest with humanoid speakers such as werewolves as kisses. Suffice it to say, the semilupine couple had quite the conversation at this point, but don't expect we editors to even _begin_ translating it. The only two people who could get all giggly whenever such phrases are mentioned, immediately before resuming said conversation. It's positively sickening sometimes._

"Draco's with her at Godric's Hollow now. We've got to get going."

"Cassie, there's a battle going on in just a little while. Voldemort's going to attack, and we've been preparing a rebuttal force all morning." Despite the fact that this was quite a mouthful for John, Cass merely shrugged at it.

"So?"

"So! They want someone to run the Machine for artillery backup. I can't do it without you."

"Crap. Get Mel down here. I can give her instructions on the pre-loaded commands and maybe that'll hold it." John turned to go, but not before kissing his beloved once more. Cass ran a hand through his hair and held him close a second. "I do love you, you know that?"

John's arms went slack even as she said it, and before she could even look up properly, his eyes had gone blank and the unearthly voice started:

_"THE PRICELESS SECOND IS LOST THIS DAY. NONE LOOK, FOR NONE KNOW WHERE, NOR EVEN _TO_ LOOK. GUARD WELL THAT WHICH WAS LOST, FOR NONE SHALL KNOW THE WOUND UNTIL THE HEIRS COME INTO THEIR LEGACY."_

"Holy fuck." Cass' eyes were wide as John came back to himself.

"It happened again, didn't it? What did I say?"

"Something about lost seconds and heirs and legacy. What won't we know to look for?" Cass frowned, thinking hard, until suddenly she gasped. "The priceless second –second identity! Mel's family doesn't know to look for her, because they think she's dead. We should guard Hermione well because if Mel's cover's blown, those damn Catesbys will try to hunt us all down. And they will, regardless, but it won't happen until those three heirs get their legacy…who the hell are they supposed to be?"

"Narcissa, Draco, and you." John remarked unemotionally. "Lucius Malfoy was killed half an hour ago. Tonks confirmed it."

_"What?"_

"The Death Eaters had gathered outside of Godric's Hollow for a revel before they attacked Hogsmeade. Lucius turned against his master and refused to kill the Muggles they had captured. Voldemort killed him and sent his body onto a heap of dead with a wandless hex. That amplified wand Severus warned us about is working –that's why we need the Machine."

"John, I've got to tell Draco! He's back there guarding Hermione, we sent Narcissa to St. Mungo's, he's going to be so- -right when his dad turned back-"

"Cassie, Draco was the one who called Tonks and the other Aurors to spy on the revel. He saw. He knows."

"But why was he…?"

"I'd imagine he heard the noise or something and went to make sure they didn't come any closer to the house where she's hidden. Where exactly is she?"

"The one with the ugly red tree in front. Where was the revel?" John thought quickly. Having studied and drawn maps of the area, he knew it perfectly by heart in his head. 

"A quarter-mile or so. Tonks says that they've moved on, but Draco wasn't with her party. I'd say he's still guarding at the Redtree House."

"I'm ready. Where's your car?" Severus was indeed ready, if not dressed precisely the way one would expect. They started out of the room even as Cass began giving commands.

"Right outside on the lawn. John, please draw up a map so we can avoid driving over the revel site. There's paper and stuff under the passenger seat. Sevvy, your shoes are on the wrong feet and your shirt's backwards. I'm going to give orders to Ginny and Mel; I will be _right_ with you."

Ten minutes later, Dingo was in the air. It would be nearly twenty years before Cass knew how wrong she had gotten the prophecy.

********************************************************* 

"Draco?"

"You're awake!"

"Yes…" Hermione looked around, confused, but still too tired to lift her head more than a few inches. "I don't mean to be rude, but…where are we?"

"We're…you don't remember?"

"Remember what?" Hermione looked for her wand and saw her wrist. There was a corkscrewing, angry scar that went up and around her forearm from hand to near the elbow. "Good lord, what the hell-?"

"Hermione…you were kidnapped." Draco frowned and took the tired girl's hand in one of his. "Almost exactly ten months ago."

"Ten months? But that's impossible- …what day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"The date!"

"Oh. January sixteenth."

"It was _March_ just a few hours ago!"

"No, it wasn't…Hermione, they must have kept you asleep somehow."

"No way. If I was asleep, I wouldn't be so…so tired…"

Draco looked around for something that would hold water, reasoning that it might help is friend to wake up. Instead, he discovered one of his mother's gin bottles, a half pot of stale coffee, and a Muggle child's backpack. He recognized that as his own, which he had demanded because it was in Slytherin colors and later forgotten about. Unzipping it, he discovered a mother lode of snacks, treats, drinks, and general junk food items –all Muggle. 

Narcissa's personal private stash was so unusual and varied he laughed aloud before seizing something called a Snickers bar. It claimed to contain peanuts, which, he remembered from Yankish-foods classes, contained protein and were therefore nutritious. He also remembered Professor Cass's lecture on chocolate's being made from beans, which made it therefore a vegetable and therefore also a health food. Unfortunately, Draco had not quite grasped that she hadn't been serious.

"Hermione! Wake up!" Unwrapping an end of the confection, Draco waved it near her nose. "You've got to eat this. It'll wake you up."

"What on earth –is that a chocolate bar?"

"Yes, with-" he checked the label. "Caramel, peanuts and soft fluffy filling. Come on. It's good for you."

"Sugar is not either good for you. Rots your teeth."

"It's a vegetable!"

"What is?"

"Chocolate!"

"Draco, you sound like a woman with PMS. I'm not eating that."

"But aren't you _hungry?"_ Draco waved the chocolate under her nose again. "I've got potato crisps, too, and a fat bag of gummi worms…" He checked the backpack again; reading the contents in what he hoped was a tempting voice. "Ring-Dings, Ho-Hos, Twinkies –you can't have _them_, they're dangerous- M&Ms, Chewy Spree, barbecue flavored potato crisps, salt and vinegar flavored potato crisps, a can of chocolate covered cashew nuts, Hershey kisses, gummi worms, gummi _bears_, _cinnamon_ gummi bears, Wonka Runts _and_ Nerds, whatever on earth _those_ are –and three Diet Cokes." Hermione frowned. 

"Why bother with _diet_ soda after all that junk? And how on earth are Twinkies supposed to be dangerous?"

"They don't have the protective chocolate coating which keeps out the germs…" Draco smiled wryly. "Sis wasn't serious about that, was she?"

"Sis?"

"You know, Professor Cass."

"Oh, then you know." Hermione sighed with relief. "And you're …okay with that?"

"Her calling me 'little bro'? Of course. Please eat something. Look at your arm, you're barely a sack of bones."

"Alright, but I'm eating the cashew nuts. Those at least keep up the _pretense_ of health." Two nuts, chewed haltingly, later, Hermione suddenly gasped. 

"What is it?"

_"I've missed the N.E.W.T.s!"_

"Hermione, only you would care about that at a time like this," Draco sighed, checking out the window. He assumed the Death Eaters had cleared out from the revel that had ended his father's life, but he had no idea how close they were or when Cass would be back with Snape. 

Right then it hit him. 

His father wasn't coming back. Ever.

His mother was in St. Mungo's. He didn't know how she was, and she didn't know about her husband. He would have to tell her, _if_ she made it.

The knock on the door downstairs made him draw his wand. He shushed Hermione, who was now trying to inspect her scarred arm confusedly, and went down, prepared for nearly anything. Needless to say, it was his godfather.

"How is she?" Severus asked. He looked like a little boy, and for the moment Draco was relieved. At least he had one bit of good news to tell.

"She's fine, Uncle."

It was more than clear Severus wanted to run up the stairs like a child on Christmas morning, but the dark-haired man touched his godson's shoulder instead. 

"Draco, I'm sorry." The black eyes were nearly even with the blue by now. 

"It's alright. Better go up, we should get her out of here."

Lucius had resisted Lord Voldemort. He had died, with more nobility than ever in his life, and been tossed onto a heap of common Muggle dead, whose lives had all been better than his. Dimly, Draco knew it was better this way. His father had finally freed himself before dying, and in death had earned back at least some of the honor he had lost. He would not stand trial, and in at least the hearts of those who knew him best was exonerated of everything. That was enough. Draco would mourn later. The time had come to finish what began almost sixty years ago.

Of course, the full extant of Lucius' final heroism would be revealed, at exactly the time when the misinterpretation of the prophecy was proved. But again, that would be quite some time later.

************************************************************* 


	65. A Dark and Rainy Night

Chapter Sixty-Five: A Dark and Rainy Night

Few places in the world are as dreary as institutions built by the government. In many cases they are merely brick boxes for shoving people and files in, but occasionally a tourism-minded mayor or planning committee does engage an architect worth his salt to make the civic edifice something a bit better than an eyesore. Naturally, said edifice is never quite as large or up-to-date in seventy years as it was in the era of its' construction, and all the grandiose architecture in the world is merely a bit of frosting on a fallen cake, a little polish on a shoe with no proper sole.

Such a place was Broughton Orphanage. 

It had large marble steps, massive carved-wood-and-inlaid-iron double doors, and white columns that reminded people quite a bit of the American's White House –or would have if there weren't usually seven or eight children climbing them by day. In the present age, the massive doors had proved too heavy for their hinges, and until such time as the civic committee's paid handyman could get to repairing them, were bolted shut with a detour sign advising anyone with business to go 'round to the back. The handyman was, naturally, a shiftless son of a 'prominent family' –that is to say, a family who wrote fat checks, and at present it looked as if the doors would never be opened.

Of course, the doors weren't quite as heavy for the hinges as everyone supposed. The fact was that seventy-three and one-quarter years of little kids hopping nimbly up to perch on the big bar handles, hang on tight, and let two or three friends swing the door for a ride, had simply worn the original 1924 hinges out. 

Architects really should take little kids' creativity into consideration more often.

The same, of course, could be said of the doorknobs on more or less every portal in the place. If there weren't two or three loops of string tied tight around the base, testament to loose teeth and impatience, the knobs were likely as not to drop off in the hand if turned too sharply. Children love to tie doorknobs together and prevent adults getting out.

The windows either stuck shut or dropped open with a healthy sneeze.

The oldest bedsteads in the place, iron or steel jobs left over from the dissolution of Bedlam Asylum in 1923, were the most comfortable. The 1942 replacements had been made during wartime shortages and tended to collapse if you got on from the wrong side or had a reasonably strong attack of the vapors. The 1965 models were little better, though those had nicely oiled castors perfect for bed racing down the halls. In any case, the beds had been jumped on since the mid twenties or earlier and were either lumpy as cobble roads or squashed flat. 

The big carved marble fireplace, intended by the architect to be surrounded with sleepy tykes of an evening, listening to the orphanage director read aloud a bedtime story, (preferably something moral, dull, Dickens or all three,) had been screened off as a fire hazard since the neighborhood chimney sweep retired. There were often gory tales told by night of a child stuck up the chimney, always by older kids to younger. The memorable event of a pigeon skeleton dropping onto the hearth had caused no less than twelve six-year-olds to go into hysterics. That had been in 1952.

The second toilet on the left in the boys' lavatory didn't work, hadn't since before the war, and likely never would again. Naturally, every important visitor was directed to precisely that biffy to answer nature's call and receive the horrid shock of 'a Broughton shoeshine' upon flushing. A bit of graffiti on the wall immortalized the event of a certain Prime Minister having been given said treatment in 1940 and quite patriotically listed every word the great man had used on the occasion. Not even _that_ had been enough to get the civic committee around to ringing a plumber up.

There was a loose floorboard in the third girls' dormitory under which, it was rumored, more than seventeen hundred salacious novels had been concealed and shared since Broughton's opening. In truth, it was closer to one thousand, nine hundred.

In the kitchen there was a meat grinder, immortalized in schoolboy song as where so-and-so went after he did you-know-what to the hall Matron x many years ago. In truth, the thing didn't work.

The second upstairs telephone worked, but only after one dialed, hit the cabinet twice in a specific place with the receiver, thumped it up top, and swore three times.

There was a basement closet reputed to be haunted. It was, though only by an ongoing club of girls who had met since 1926 to discuss aforementioned salacious novels. Old members left at eighteen or earlier and were replaced with new thirteen-year-olds, thus keeping one real tradition perfectly intact.

One glorious Guy Fawkes Day in the late forties, a boy whose name has been lost to history sent a lit firework down the rain gutter and blew an impressive hole in the drainpipe leading to a rain barrel. By some odd quirk of ballistic physics, his hole was perfectly situated so that every visitor who tried to ring the back doorbell while it rained got a big splash in the face if they were above five foot. The orphans referred to this as one's 'Broughton baptism.'

In 1971, a girl distraught over the breakup of the Beatles attempted to kill herself by jumping out of the girls' dorm window. Fortunately for posterity, it overlooked the back recess grounds, and she sustained only a sprained ankle by landing in a dumpster full of footballs. An older, male orphan who bore a fairly striking resemblance to Ringo Starr rescued her, and _their_ children never lived in an orphanage.

The big dictionary had letters F though I printed upside down. Apparently a misprinted one had proved cheaper.

The games cabinet only unlocked if someone said the word 'ssssnake' while turning the knob. Athletes under ten believed it had been enchanted by a sort of football fairy who required a password to guarantee victory against Dinsford and Aberley orphanage teams. Athletes over ten did it anyway for good luck.

The pencil sharpener in the tiny office went backwards instead of forwards. No one had ever explained that one, though an aged secretary told the tale that a boy named Tom had repaired it for her once and it had gone counter-clockwise ever since. Perhaps Tom had been left-handed.

One window in the second boys' dorm had a dark red stain on it that looked vaguely like a thumbprint. It wouldn't come off for elbow grease, new-fangled cleanser, or anything, so most boys assumed it was simply a flaw in the glass and used 'the spot window' as a landmark in directing friends to meeting places.

There were a disproportionate number of orphans with unusually antique or foreign names, like Benedick, Romeo and Viola. The cause of this was the system for naming abandoned infants who turned up on the doorstep all too frequently. In the tiny office was a fat, leather book, with 'Collected Works of William Shakespeare' in almost illegibly faded gold letters on its' spine. This was opened at utter random in the event of a new baby, and whoever had found the child would select his or her name from the page. At the time of our story, there were six Richards, two Romeos, one Hamlet, a baby Desdemona, a Beatrice, and a Mutius Andronicus. If there were too many of one name, ten being the quota, the discoverer was permitted to use a name from a classic book, thus explaining Atticus, Holden, Scarlett and Winston. Last names were less systematically bestowed. The orphanage's register's six latest entries were as follows:  
_Green, Leonato. (Eyes.)  
Starcatcher, Julia. (Cuts on palm.)  
Quartertil, Rosaline. (Time of discovery.)  
Black, Portia. (Hair.)  
Beckham, Desdemona. (Looks like the footballer.)  
Merridew, John or Jack. (Parents killed in fire.)_

One can imagine the lives of the orphans who grew up in such a place. A moniker that could not be somehow explained by the Name System was cause to be teased, out of jealousy from those who knew nothing about their origins. Shortage and scrounging was a way of life that made cleverness and cunning the choicest of virtues, and loyalty was valued far above honesty. 

In short, it was the ideal place to bring up a Dark Lord's heir when the spell went wrong.

******************************************************* 

"Shouldn't we get out of here?" Draco asked nervously. "I mean, the Death Eaters could be anywhere, and Hermione's not exactly the picture of health right now…"

"Draco, there has got to be one of the soppiest, mushiest reunion scenes in the history of Great Britain going on just above our heads, starring two of the most terminally bookwormish people on earth today. I'm not interrupting that. Think of posterity, lad!"

"What has posterity got to do with-"

"In all of the all-star-cast war movies made about us in years to come, the next ten minutes or so are going to be the Academy bid for those actors unfortunate enough to be cast as Sevvy and 'Mione."

"You're ridiculous."

"Who'd you like to play you, dear?" John inquired. He was making a sandwich for Hermione, being the most oddly sensible of the strange party. "Out of Muggle and wizarding actresses?"

"Hmm. That's a toughie." Cass cracked open a Coke and handed another to Draco. "Considering I'm likely to be characterized as the gun-toting, slightly psycho American chick with the big rack and even bigger case of the grr-arrghs, I'd say Angelina Jolie. After 'Tomb Raider' she's already got the 'Action League Now' bit down…or perhaps Kate Beckinsale. Now for Draco…hmmm. Can't think of anyone besides Orlando Bloom _sans_ the elfy ears."

"Severus?"

"Do I even have to answer? The Metatron and Sheriff of Nottingham." Draco looked a little clueless, but the Yank continued. "If we wanted it to be a musical, though, perhaps Mandy Moore for Hermione and Justin Timberlake for Draco."

"That's not funny!"

"Oh, yes it is. Fancy the lyrics. It'd be like 'Man of La Mancha' meets 'Rent.'"

"Or more 'Into the Woods.'" John smirked. "We can give whole new meaning to those wolf costumes."

"Smutty creature. No wonder I love you so." Cass kissed her husband lightly, taking the sandwich on its' plate to go deliver.

"Forget any movies about _you_ _two_," Draco criticized. "Anyone cast would wind up married by the end of shooting."

"Good thing for the costumer," Cass retorted, taking off her belt and tossing it to John. "Dammit, I will _not_ wear those tacky sacklike pants…"

"You can borrow mine."

"I already _am_, darling. At this rate, I'll fit into _Hagrid's_ jeans by June." Going up the stairs and to the door, Cass knocked before entering –just in case. "Food for the prisoner."

"Come in!" Severus called. Hermione, despite looking pale and a little on the just-broke-out-of-Azkaban side, smiled at her eccentric friend.

"Good to see you, Cass."

"Good to see _you_, pal." The Yank set the sandwich before her friend. "Nibble time. It's peanut butter and banana, not hamburger-with-fire-sauce." Severus, John and Cass had split Theodoric's rather superlative cuisine in the car. "You don't look so good, mate. Did they not feed you?"

"I don't remember…anything…" Hermione sighed confusedly and looked down, catching something odd out the corner of her eye and her old smile flickered back. "Speak for yourself, Professor Tyler. Getting a gut there?"

"I'm not getting a gut. I'm knocked up, f'rchrissakes." Tyler's pleased grin and Granger's surprised smile were just enough to sprout a smile on the reputed Slytherin bat king. 

"Oh, Cass! When are you due?"

"Mid-June. Not nearly time enough. Oh, and Sevvy told me what sort of baby to expect, so you're getting a little girl niece to read books to." The werewolf perched on the bed beside Hermione and kissed her soundly on the cheek, without any warning. "S' good to have you back, pal. I can't imagine doin' this without you around to keep me from screwing it up somehow." Severus let out a barely audible sigh and Cass smirked at him, her arm around the newly recovered hostage. "What? You'll get to read books and be Uncle Sevvy, too."

_"Uncle Sevvy?" _A short, barking cough interrupted Hermione's laugh. Cass raised an eyebrow, checked her friend's pulse, and cast an intricate spell with a lot of 's' and 'r' sounds in it. Hermione's color went from 'wan and ashes' to almost a glow of health, the gauntness in her cheeks faded, and the scar on her wrist went from angry red to half-healed pink. 

"Ta-da!"

"What was _that?"_ Severus asked, amazed at the transformation. "Hermione, are you alright?"

"Yes…I feel a _lot_ better." Smirking and pleased with herself, Cass made a florid bow.

"Spell courtesy of the Impossibly Fabulous Mel Watling. Its something pureblooded witches cast on themselves before balls and things; sort of an all-over tune-up. Scars, blemishes and-" the werewolf indicated her own gut, "-stretch marks fade, plus you get this nice, happy an' healthy look. Considering how many of them were consumptive anorexics, it's a wonder more people don't know it." 

"I knew _of_ it," Severus explained, a bit testily. "The questions of _why_ and appropriateness come to mind."

"Because, if anything would help get my ol' pal here out of bed, it would be a new spell to go research the daylights out of at the library." Cass indicated Hermione's indeed smiling countenance; pretending obliviousness to the fact that Hermione was merely trying not to laugh. "See? Enraptured. I wonder if you could manage to get that same happy look, Sevvy."

"I think I could have a go," the formerly dour professor observed, leaning close. "I've missed you _so_, dearest." As her best friends made up for lost time, Cass tactfully went to go start the car.

"See y'all in ten," she whispered.

********************************************************************* 


	66. Mr MacGregor's Garden

Chapter Sixty-Six: Mr. MacGregor's Garden

"You know," John remarked to no one in particular, "I was just thinking, why did Peter Rabbit bother with Mr. MacGregor's garden anyway? I'd think the blackberries and cream a darned sight better than vegetables."

"Well, you're not a rabbit, dear. Maybe he really liked vegetables." Cass slowed down on the accelerator a bit. "My question was always why didn't he get those gits Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail to provide a distraction while he got some nice radishy loot for the four of 'em?"

"Are you two getting philosophical over Beatrix Potter?" Snape inquired confusedly. 

"Not philosophical, just inquisitive."

"Like, maybe Flopsy could be the stall, then Cottontail could crack the safe while Mopsy blew up a flowerpot with plastic explosive, _then_ Peter could get some _good_ vegetables."

"Are they sober?" Hermione asked Draco quietly.

"I don't know. But where in heck would Mopsy get plastic explosive from?"

"From the gopher, of course." 

"Didn't you ever see 'Winnie the Pooh' or 'Caddyshack'? Gophers are great at that kind of thing."

"And that way Owl could do reconnaissance while Roo and Piglet jury-rigged the fence and Eeyore could pile sticks against the gate, so MacGregor'd trip."

"But why would Eeyore help a bunch of little rabbits out?" Draco asked, fully into the game by now.

"Ten thistles an hour, plus thanks for noticing him." 

"I don't think Rabbit would go for it, though," Severus remarked in spite of himself. "I mean, he's a gardener, too, so he'd likely sympathize with the old guy about thievery."

"Aw, Rabbit can be bought," Cass shrugged knowingly. "Either his little nephew Brass-Button Pete could get him in with the prospect of cuttings from MacGregor's prize cabbages, or the famed strong-arm Honey Pot Pooh could lean on him a bit."

"Naw, Winnie-the-Pooh's no strong-arm," Hermione asserted with unusual vim. "Even if he _is_ a bear of very little brain, I'd say it would be Tigger who leaned on people."

"And of course, Kanga's the brains of the operation, she and Peter Rabbit's mum."

"In two minutes, we've turned two of the most beloved children's books in history into a gangster film," John observed. 

"Yeah." Cass frowned slightly and then smiled. "Neat!"

"Why did we start again?" Draco asked.

"I was trying to make Hermione laugh, but it all got so involved and serious and..." John thought for a second. "What about Christopher Robin?"

Severus smiled indulgently, for once not minding the utter silliness of his American friends. Hermione had been pale, gaunt, and completely confused when he first saw her, trying to sit up in the bed her captors had kept her in. Draco had tried his best to explain her situation, but still she had no memory of what had happened. In her mind, she had gone out to visit Hagrid and suddenly woken up in a house in Godric's Hollow with a scar on her wrist and the look of an Azkaban escapee. The months she had been gone were merely minutes to her, and she had been surprised over and over since awakening. Draco's hair was much longer and he was about two inches taller, as well as sprouting a downy first moustache. Severus had a few days' worth of scruffy beard stubble and looked, in his own opinion, ridiculous. Cassandra had gone from a sick-looking newly bitten werewolf to the portrait of health and glow –not to mention her waistline. John had shaved his beard and taken to tying his long hair back. Hermione could scarcely comprehend the changes in herself; those in her friends were bizarre. 

One thing was certain, though, even dazed and ill, she still liked kisses. Severus was afraid to touch her at first, but once she smiled, he hadn't been able to resist. She was at his side, looking better since the Day-Spa-In-Seconds charm but still weak. Carrying her to the car, a few kisses, and keeping an arm about her to make she wouldn't disappear was all the contact Severus had the courage to offer. In the weeks and months of missing her, the longing for her smile, her laugh, their conversations, just her presence, even, had grown so strong that, confronted with the subject of that longing, he was afraid. The fact that he was nervous about whether she was sick or what the Dark had put her through was secondary to this odd fear.

Even as Draco and the Tylers argued the points of Tigger and Rabbit's love-hate relationship in shockingly precise and vehement detail, Severus felt a sudden warmth in his left palm. He looked, and Hermione smiled at him, her left hand in his above her shoulder. She moved a little and slipped her right arm around him, leaning closer. 

"I missed you." She snuggled close, something they had never had much time to do, and inhaled. Suddenly, she laughed lightly. "Severus, you smell like…you smell like firewhiskey and cat hair."

"Oh, yes." He went a little red. "Er…I was on a bit of…I had been…your cat's been coming to stay with me, and Cassandra quit drinking, so I just…well…I was quite lonely, and…"

"He's just coming off a bender," the ever-blunt professor explained. "Can't blame him, either. Just a while ago we had a Death Eater on Polyjuice trying to pass for you, we've had raids and …casualties…oh, and the Chudley Cannons beat the Wimbourne Wasps!"

"Was Ron pleased?" 

"Er…he smiled when we told him, but that was about it. He and Harry and Ginny've been kinda worried about you."

"_Kinda_?" Draco asked incredulously. "More like _completely_. Professor McGonagall's going to be beside herself when she hears you're safe."

"Omigod!" 

Everyone turned to stare at the recovered hostage, whose eyes had gone wide. "I owe her homework!"

"Don't worry about it, Hermione," John smiled. "I think you have all the time in the world to catch up on what you missed."

Severus sighed and hugged her closer. They both did.

***************************************************** 

Peter Pettigrew was a rat. 

No, literally. 

He had arrived in the Forbidden Forest clearing just in time to see his master raise his wand for the final curse against Harry Potter, who had bravely and stupidly come out to meet him alone. A split second later, there was a zipping sound. Lord Voldemort uttered the Avada Kedavra in a thunderous voice.

Nothing happened.

It was only as the green light began to fume backwards from his wand and consume his arm that Tom Riddle realized what had happened. 

Potter had _not_ come alone.

Arrows just as suddenly sprouted in the chests of the remaining Death Eaters, Pettigrew excepted. The centaur archers drew again, their bows aimed at Voldemort. Harry whistled softly and the 112th World Aurory, the D.A., and the Order of the Phoenix stood up from behind their trees and bushes. Ginny Weasley blew the smoke from her gun, grinning at Voldemort and his splintered half-wand. 

"Sorry, Tom."

It was right at that point that Peter Pettigrew realized he had backed the wrong horse. He bolted, disapparating in the most cowardly and bungling way imaginable. He found himself with a now crying baby girl, in a Muggle back alley of all places. It occurred to him that even if the Dark Lord was killed, the Filius Replicatus charm would work on the infant. Maybe, bringing up the new Dark Lord –no, Dark Lady, he supposed, would grant him the protector he needed to stay alive against the Aurors and wizards of the Light.

In retrospect, it could be said the outcome of the war was already decided by that point. Voldemort was trapped, wandless, by no less than thirty sentient beings, including the centaurs and four D.A. members mounted on thestrals to provide aerial support. Remus Lupin rode Buckbeak and Tonks rode his mate, Fledgemare. The theory had been that brooms could be counter-spelled. The Machine, operated by Mel Watling from the Shrieking Shack, had placed a rebounder spell on Voldemort and every Death Eater the reconnaissance had warned them off, effectively damning every action they took with wands. Ginny shooting the wand in half had actually been something of a just-in-case, as well as a psychological attack on the enemy. 

There was a lot going on at the Machine, as the communications base was located two feet from the computer that controlled the wand antenna. Mel, poor girl, was trying to synchronize Aurors, D.A.'s, Phoenixes, and of course, centaurs, and naturally the cell-phones kept fuzzing out from magical interference. Finally Mel gave up, opened another instance of the Machine program on the computer, and began to tamper with the cell-phones magically, all the while keeping track of the communications by means of an assistant, who repeated everything she told him to into the mike. Theodoric was surprisingly effective. The theory of the Machine's being able to take out Voldemort's own amplified wand device, block his power, and even provide a tactical base, was very Mugglefied in its computer dependency. Had Voldemort employed any Muggle-born hackers, the war might very well have ended differently.

Another theory had been that Muggle and centaur-style tactics could likely best wand-dependent wizards, if they had the element of surprise. Ginny's gun and the centaurs' bows proved this.

Of course, these theories were given as historical fact by the end of the day. Another given fact, known even before Voldemort rose, was Peter Pettigrew's inept ability with magic, especially complex charms. 

To put it mildly, the Filius Replicatus didn't work.

Pettigrew was now left with a _really_ crying baby girl, whose palm had been cut by the wand's failure. What was he to do? He thought of killing the child. No, he hadn't the nerve. Abandoning her? But what if the spell _had_ worked? 

In the end, he settled on the easiest decision, which was not to decide. He began to sing softly and rock the nameless baby, who eventually went to sleep against his coat, still wrapped in Narcissa Malfoy's makeshift blanket of old bedsheets. Night fell and he was left in the dark, in a poorer quarter of London, in a neighborhood known as Dennon Street.

_Dennon Street?_

The memory stirred. Tom Riddle had grown up in an orphanage. Its location, Pettigrew recalled, was in the Broughton district …and its address was forty-one Dennon Street. 

He deposited the sleeping baby on the back step, despite the rain, rang the doorbell, and transformed, going to hide in the shadows and watch.

********************************************************** 

Judy Parkington was fifteen and had been at Broughton since she was seven. She could type fairly well and liked to study late, so she had managed to con the elderly secretary into giving her the graveyard shift in the office. She answered any phone calls that came in, the doorbell, any emails over the shabby computer, and made ample use of the desk space to study and do homework. She was a responsible girl, so they trusted her not to steal paper clips and to do what was necessary, but in truth, nights were almost always uneventful, so she was free to immerse herself in history, science, geometry, and the occasional salacious book from the loose-board library in her dorm.

That is, until January sixteenth, at about ten after midnight, when the doorbell rang.

The elderly secretary and nurse were perfectly used to abandoned babies and therefore somewhat unimpressed by the little black-haired creature. Judy was tremendously excited, however, so they exchanged looks and maintained a ceremonial attitude while weighing, measuring, bathing, inspecting, and even diapering the little one. The nurse had the secretary fix a bottle of formula while she tended to the infant girl's cut palm and then let Judy feed the baby. After the infant was peaceably, if rapidly, slurping up dinner, the secretary fetched the leather-bound Shakespeare to seek out this baby's name.

Judy relinquished the small, cute parcel to the nurse and set the book on its' spine. Since she had found the baby, it was her honor to choose her name. On the count of three, she let the book fall open.

"_Julius Caesar_, act one."

"Hmm. Shall we call her Calpurnia?" the nurse inquired.

"No! Poor little kid's got it rough enough." Judy looked over the page, and, to her chagrin, found only Roman men's names. "Oh, dear…wait. What if we feminized Julius? Call the baby Julia?"

"If you like," the secretary yawned, thinking more about getting back to bed than the child's name. "Last name?"

Judy thought. Judy thought hard. She noticed the baby's bandaged hand, and remembered the weird, asterisk-star pattern the cuts had made, and wondered how she got it. Then the idea struck.

"Julia Star-catcher."

"Alright. We've got a Quartertil or two, after all. Julia Starcatcher." The secretary scribbled down the name next to length and weight, the added the date and time. "Better get her up to the infants' ward."

"Actually…may I…?"

"Of course. The formula's right here and the instructions are on the package. I'll get a few blankets and a bassinet." As the nurse spoke, she raised an eyebrow at the secretary, as if to say 'Be nice, Winifred.' She patted little Julia's arm. "What a sweet baby."

"I'll look out for her," Judy promised. "You can be sort of my sister, eh, Julie? And you'll grow up big and strong, yes you will, cutie…"

"She'll likely have a scar on her hand," the secretary remarked as the nurse returned with blankets. "Only thing her parents left the poor little creature with."

"Well, except for that…very characteristic nose." The nurse caught Judy's glare and smiled hastily. "But she has darling ears, and quite a lot of hair."

"I wonder what color her eyes will be," Judy mused. "Have you polished off that bottle already, sweetheart? I'll fix you more, hold on…"

************************************************ 


	67. Victory

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Victory

"Well, what now?" Mel mumbled to herself. "Shall we carry old Voldy's head in on a pike?"

"On a fish?" Theodoric asked. 

"No! F'rchrissakes, Theo, I –er, forgot you were in here!"

"A pike is a fish, ma'am."

"No, not a pike like a fish, a pike like a…oh, gods." The hooker-turned-lieutenant sighed and cracked open a soda from her Colonel's stash. "What's going on with the cellephones?" This term was a confusion-born blend of 'cellular' and 'telephones' and worked surprisingly well. Theodoric smiled.

"Ever'one's singin' and laughin' and askin' where the heck each other are."

"Oh. Well, have you gotten in touch with La- -your Auntie Cassandra yet?"

"Na."

"Where is that girl? I swear, she and John are pulled over someplace with the…"

"Wasn' Professah Snape an' my cousin Draco goin' with them?"

"A little thing like that wouldn't faze your auntie." Mel plugged her headset into a different jack and dialed a cellephone number. "Hello? Oh, christ –I mean…Tonks! Hello! …Oh. …Right. Well, what's going on? …Really? Have they found…oh. …Oh. …Well. …Alright. I'll try my best. Later!" She hung up and turned to the five-year-old. "You know, I get the distinct impression you and I won't get to tell our side of it."

"Of what?"

"Never mind. Have we got any more pretzels?"

"Donaghan's got the bag."

****************************************************************** 

Harry sighed and tucked his wand into his jeans pocket. It was over. People were shouting and dancing and crying on each other and generally releasing all the tension that had been building up for years. Only he and Dumbledore were quiet.

"Is it really over?" Harry asked doubtfully.

"Don't you know, Harry?" The old wizard's twinkling eyes were bright. "It never really is. I thought it was over when we defeated Grindelwald. The Muggles thought it was over when the First World War ended in surrender. Mark my words, something will go wrong in the next few days, or months, or years, that will guarantee our children see another great cause and fight. For the Muggles the Treaty of Versailles did it. For my generation, it was our failure to teach the lesson that pure blood isn't everything, and our failure to find one infant boy in an orphanage." Harry looked at the burned place in the leaves where the Dark Lord had finally fallen and sighed again. "All we can do now is try our hardest to prevent that something from happening, rest a while, and not get a stomachache at the celebration party from pumpkin tarts. I remember being quite hung-over the next day in 1945."

It was such a classically Dumbledorean statement that Harry couldn't help but smile. A second later, a bright beam of light lit up that smile and made him squint.

"Holy-!"

"You've driven right into the bloody woods!"

"I can't help that! The car's going nuts on me!"

"Maybe Dingo wants to mate with the Anglia."

"Sevvy, you shut your facetious, sarcastic mouth!"

"When is car mating season, anyway?"

"Hermione! Not you, too!"

_"Hermione?!"_

Harry ran into the light and saw two scruffy figures trying to turn off the engine of a now-parked black convertible. It was Cass and Draco, arguing like Ginny and Ron with a faulty broom. John Tyler seemed to be admiring the scenery of the woods in his detached way, Professor Snape was actually smiling –grinning, even, and leaning against him was Hermione, safe, well, and home.

"Harry! How are you? What's going on?"

"Hermione!" Harry gasped again. "We…Voldemort's dead! It's all over."

"What?" A very indignant werewolf tumbled out of the car and fell into the leaves before standing up and righting herself. "Already?"

"I suspected it," Severus mumbled, feeling his forearm. He looked at Hermione and smiled. "All in one day."

******************************************************************** 

Dinner the next evening was a grand affair, despite the fact that there had been no homemade food prepared and the Great Hall was a little short of tables and the house-elves for once seemed to prefer dancing with glee about Voldemort's demise than actually serving the pizza Dean Thomas and Tonks obtained. Mel made a call on the cellephone to a certain house full of unsavorily employed females and there was enough soda and Muggle booze to drown a Quidditch team. Cass and she drove out in Dingo to pick it up and also returned with a questionably obtained fifty-gallon drum of fudge ripple ice cream in time for lunch. John and Severus personally ate roughly a fifth of it. 

The students were allowed to go home in honor of the great holiday if their parents wished, so by the time evening rolled around Hogwarts had become a sort of party house. Classrooms that had already been converted into hospital rooms just in case of casualties or wounds were rapidly re-charmed to resemble those of an especially nice hotel. More than one couple sought to…er, celebrate privately at various intervals, some simply wanted to crash before returning to feast and dance anew, and quite a few hung-over ones needed Madam Pomfrey's help. 

Quartermaster Molly Weasley presided happily over a humming kitchen of gleeful house-elves who wanted nothing better than to make large quantities of their most challenging and beloved desserts.  Work was a house-elf's joy, after all, so huge craggy mountains of Norwegian ice cream, acres of sheet cakes, cookies enough to re-shingle the roof and just barely enough of Draco's favorite pie all appeared as the pizza boxes were stacking up empty. 

In the Hospital Wing proper, Hermione endured a thorough check-up and was pronounced more or less well, apart from malnutrition and what looked like severe exhaustion. Madam Pomfrey suggested a combination of potions to try and call forth her memories of captivity, but Hermione declined. After all, any potion that could call up memories of the past few months could also call up what she had been up to at any other time. She didn't want to betray any pranks of Harry and Ron –or any secrets that could prove distressing to the wrong people. Reluctantly, Madam Pomfrey allowed her to go down and celebrate, provided she didn't over-exert herself. 

This may have been a mistake.

It was in the midst of many toasts that a vaguely tipsy Draco rose and tapped his glass with a fork. His mother was back with singed hair, a fuzzy memory and a heaping pile of Krispy Kremes beside her martini glass. Madam Pomfrey had offered her the potions, but Narcissa was still a little too out of it to agree or disagree with any certainty. (Of course, that may have been the result of Dobby elf's martinis…) In any case, Draco proposed a toast to the two first American Aurors –and continued:

"These two have done a lot for Great Britain –an' the world…and they've got a secret but I bet if we asked nice they'd –hic! -tell us all."

They didn't even have to say anything. John, blushing a little red, just slipped his arm around his wife and grinned.

"You're _not!"_

"Congratulations!"

"Oh, _per'fessor!_ When?"

"In June." Cass, for once, didn't look like a sick werewolf who missed her friend. Her dark circles and pale complexion had given way to a strange, but not unknown radiance. Little Donaghan and Theodoric, who both knew, happily took turns speaking into her navel, and the identical Mrs. Weasleys eagerly compared anecdotes. Fred, George and John formed a sort of expectant fathers' club, which mainly seemed to be debating the likelihood of the incipient heirs' Quidditch abilities. Several bets were placed by various parties on all three babies' possible weights, lengths, genders, Houses and positions, though when Severus spoke noone doubted his veracity:

"The Weasleys will be boys, twenty-one and twenty-one and one-quarter inches respectively, eight pounds four ounces each, born an hour apart, and they'll be Gryffindor Beaters. The little Tyler will be a twenty-eight inch, eight-pound ten-ounce girl, and she's a Keeper. Twenty Galleons on the lot."

"But which House, Sevvy?" Cass inquired.

"That's entirely up to her, now, isn't it?" Severus smiled in the direction of his friend's belt buckle. "Get to work, by the way, we need a good Keeper." He leaned back in his chair and, without thinking, slipped an arm around Hermione. "Would you care to make an announcement like that sometime with me?"

"I believe I would."

"Before we lost you, I asked a question once. I don't know if you remember it…" Severus reached into his pocket and retrieved not a little box, but a leather pouch. He set his thumb on the clasp and it snapped open, evidently charmed to his fingerprint. It was an elegant but simple platinum band. "I forget how I originally asked this, but…"

"The answer's yes, Severus." Hermione smiled and the professor gently kissed her, slipping the ring onto her finger. "I love you, you know."

"And I, you."

"I won't go away again."

It suddenly hit the newly affianced couple that the room had fairly rapidly gone silent just near them. Slowly, they turned their heads away from each other.

Staring, jaws dropped, were eleven Weasleys, two Tylers, three Tonkses, one Potter, two Lovegoods, a Lupin, a Dumbledore and a Watling. The Tylers' stares turned to grins in a twinkling.

"Proposing already, Severus?" John inquired. "What a wonderful night for it."

"I do hope you said yes, Hermione," Cass agreed. Nervously, the caught couple nodded. Mel Watling suddenly clapped her hands and pointed at Tonks.

"Ten points! I told you those two'd wind up together eventually. Pay up!"

"Er…" The reunited lovers both managed to look guilty. "I suppose an explanation's rather in order…"

"Oh, I think we can all get some more ice cream first," Luna observed. Everyone turned to stare at her. "After all, it's merely the fulfillment of eons-old prophecy. I wonder where the badger got to."

"What prophecy?" Molly asked.

"You know, the one about the Four Founders' reincarnation at the close of the century in time for the dawning of the age of Aquarius. It's simply chance that Gryffindor wound up with Slytherin this time. In another thousand years I bet it'll be Hufflepuff."

Luna's eccentricity helped to clear matters up and smooth over the dreadful, but not quite so dreadful, shock. While it is not certain whether there was anything true in her talk of prophecy, the argument of just which House each of the four represented was a joke between them forevermore. Whenever Cass wanted to make her 'big brother Sevvy' bristle, all she had to do was call him 'Gryffindor'.

The war was over, and new lives had just begun for all.


	68. Bed Rest

Chapter Sixty-Eight: Bed Rest

"This is the most ridiculous, _half-cocked_ insane _absurdity_ of an idea I have _ever_ heard _in my life!"_

"Shall I fetch the leashes?" Mel asked of Severus under her breath. The professor smiled for a second before turning seriously to the indignantly complaining creature who seemed intent on forcible escape from Madam Pomfrey's domain.

"Cassandra, this is a common enough problem among bitten females who attempt to carry full-blooded werewolf offspring to term. If you would-"

"Attempt? _Attempt?_ I've been doing a fairly decent job of this _attempt_ so far, you…you _male!"_

"I knew she wouldn't like the idea," Hermione remarked absently.

"Like it or not, it's the only option you have until John gets back with some kind of cure for it." Severus took his disgruntled coworker by the shoulders and spoke in his best stern professor voice. "So choose, Cassandra. Is it bed rest and a healthy child, or gadding about Britain in that mad flying car of yours doing god-knows-what and possibly dying in addition to an almost certain miscarriage? Is that what you really want?"

Instead of getting snarky back, sullenly agreeing, or even arguing with Severus, Cass quite suddenly burst into tears –something she rarely if ever did. Severus Snape was decidedly startled by the reaction and even more startled by the sobbing, trembling creature who was presently hugging him.

"I'll do what she says, Sevvy. I'm sorry…I'm just so scared…"

"Hormonal much?" Mel observed. "That part of the symptoms, eh?" Madam Pomfrey nodded, trying not to laugh.

"I'm afraid so. It's rather an unusual situation for me, but not at all uncommon according to every reliable source on werewolves. Apparently one in three bitten-mother, full-blood fetus cases works out this way, but it's especially rough on her, considering that the baby has A positive blood and Cassandra's A negative. That by itself would be a good cause for a week or two of taking it easy."

"You're not ticked at me, eh, Michelle?" Cass inquired of her own navel before just as suddenly going ashen and looking more than a little bit paranoid. "Sevvy…she kicked. She answered. That isn't good. Who the hell am I pregnant with? What the sodwockets is going on?"

"Aaah, Rosemary's baby, now?" Mel sarcastically waved her hands. "For fuck's sake, Cassie. You're pregnant with a baby werewolf. What do you expect, a stinking textbook case? I'd be worried when you start producing litters at a time in the hall closet."

Hermione just as rapidly and hormonally cracked up. Mel spun around and stared as the recovered hostage tried her damnedest to stop laughing.

"I'm sorry…it's just…_puppies_…"

"Barking loonies, the mess of you." A thought suddenly struck the ex-hooker. "Oh, dear goddess…a hundred and one Dalmatians…" 

"So explain it to me again?" Cass asked Madam Pomfrey. "It's called transfigurative sanguinide preeclampsia?"

"Transfigurative _in_sanguinide preeclampsia. It has to do with what happens to your blood when you turn from human to wolf and back. At this point, the baby is changing also, but there are times, apparently, when the baby changes faster than you or before you do, and that causes effects similar to preeclampsia in ordinary pregnancy. If we can't find some way to synchronize the change for both of you more closely, there are going to be some serious side effects. Rest is the first and easiest step to take. By resting you can slow your metabolic processes, and that may be enough to get the transformations reasonably closer. If not, there are other options we can add to the treatment."

"And John's in America finding them?"

"Exactly."

"I rather wish he could've sent Smokey," Cass observed with a frown. "I miss him now."

"Cassie, John's been away for an hour," Mel looked at her watch. Severus looked first at her and then at Hermione.

"I can understand that."

"So I'm going to go and lay down and just read or sleep?" Cass's frown didn't fade at this. "Oh, well."

"I'll stay with you if you like," Hermione offered. She, too, was on a schedule of rest since her rescue. "I've been doing homework and there's this great book Caitlin Pierce lent me…"

"I'd like that. Say, how about I move the TV and stuff upstairs and then we can play a bit of Pac-Man or something?"

"You're not moving anything larger than a breadbox," Mel chastised.

"I'd use my wand," Cass protested. "Besides, why does everyone compare size to a breadbox? Has anyone here ever _seen_ a breadbox? I sure as hell haven't. Bread comes in those little grocery-store bags or in those loaf pans the house-elves use."

"That reminds me," Madam Pomfrey snapped her fingers. "Severus, would you arrange to have a house-elf go and wait on these two? And don't give me that look, Miss Granger; you don't have to be abusive to elves to get help from them. Honestly, the little dears really _like_ to help."

"And that reminds me," Cass grinned suddenly. "You are now the proud owner of nine house-elves, Hermione."

_"What?"_

"She 'bought' them when we cased the Malfoy manor," Mel explained. "As a joke, she told them they were a present for you."

"Some joke! What goes through your mind, Yankee?"

"But think of it! You can teach them to alphabetize and they'll be your little library assistants."

"I can fetch my own books, thank you very much."

"Not presently." Severus patted her hand while Madam Pomfrey's back was turned. "And at least your elves will have a good dental plan."

"And after all, someone has to do the laundry. Between your own and your fiancé's messy aprons after potions class, I'd say you're in line for some very happy house-elves." Everyone turned to stare at Madam Pomfrey, who smiled. "Oh, honestly, you think you've kept the secret so awfully well. It's been obvious for the past year and a half or so."

"Really?" Mel picked up a tongue depressor and began to inspect it before gnawing experimentally on the end. "It took me two months to notice that."

"Well, dear, you're not exactly the prime master of disguise yourself. I first noticed these two didn't hate each other when Severus burned his hand and refused to cancel work on a Wolfsbane potion with his assistant. For the brave and secretive war hero, the dear boy's always been a bit of a baby when it comes to burns, ever since an accident with a cauldron in his second year. You had such an incident yourself in your third, brewing potions in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, and instead of coming straight to me to have it mended, you have a scar, right there." The perceptive mediwitch tapped a pale stripe just above Mel's elbow. 

"But…I thought you didn't go to Hogwarts, Melanie," Hermione observed, startled.

"Indeed, there is no Melanie Watling in the records." Madam Pomfrey smiled. "There is also no record of Elena Marie Catesby's hair being that reddish shade or of her eyes being green, or her ever having a tan, but some of us are more adept at spotting a makeover than others." 

"I figured it out when I saw the pictures of Draco's fifth birthday," Cass explained. "The facial expressions give you away, Mel."

"I never spotted it! Elena, you're…" Severus was stammering as he looked his former student up and down. 

"Not fat anymore?" Mel's smirk had returned, though her eyes were still a little scared. 

"Well, I wouldn't put it quite that way, but yes."

"You'd know, professor. I nearly killed myself trying to slim down by magical means. That's what I was brewing when I burned my arm, metabolism enhancer."

"I gathered as much, from the missing ingredients. But…how did you manage this? You look utterly different." Severus, now that he knew Poppy knew, sat down by Hermione and slipped an arm about her back. "I wish you could see a 'before' picture –she's pulled a Tonks on us."

"Has she figured it out?" Mel asked, afraid. "I keep avoiding her if I can, 'cause if anyone could spot who I used to be, it's her."

"She just thinks you're a little preoccupied," Cass reassured. "But seriously, the change is impressive. How'd you get the shape of your face to change?"

"I didn't." For the first time, Mel seemed a little proud of what she had managed to accomplish. "I straightened my hair and cut it differently, after I lost about a thousand pounds, and then the tan and a few makeup tricks did most of it."

"You didn't charm your eyes, I can tell that much," Severus observed, "but they used to be blue, not green." Mel touched her eye and shifted the colored contact lens. Everyone but Hermione flinched.

"That answer your question?" Hermione giggled slightly. "You wear these, too?"

"No, but my mother does. She used to put colored ones in at parties and people'd spend half the night asking what was new."

"I couldn't touch my own eye, but the glasses I used to wear made Quidditch so bloody hard I got them lasered." Cass cringed at the memory. "Nasty process."

"Couldn't you put a water-repelling charm on the lenses?" Mel asked, being a former bespectaclate as well. Cass shook her head.

"It wasn't rain that was the problem, it was peripheral vision. Glasses can't help that much with that –and getting them smashed into my head with a Bludger wasn't nice, either."

"Same goes for hockey pads," Mel observed. Cass nodded in agreement, then started. 

"How'd you know I got cut up once with hockey pads?"

"Er…"

"Sevvy, you great radish! I told you the brain colander was a bad idea!"

"I only saw after that hockey game and the one time in the classroom with John," Mel explained. Unfortunately, this only made Cass turn a darker shade of red.

"Er…which time in which classroom?"

****************************************************** 

"I will kill –I will do worse than kill! I will drain the smile out of that face and replace it with the blackest vitriol human suffering can distill. I will watch as that filthy slut of a human wolf howls grief to the cold moon and as she does I will cut her throat!"

Andrew Catesby had bad habits. One of them was thinking out loud when he was angry. Another was abusing house-elves, but that was the least of his problems now. Besides, the American Aurory Special Ops had confiscated his elves and made them quite happy at Hogwarts, St. Mungo's, and the Sticky Lick. Martial law still reigned, which meant that the renegades, rebels and rogues were policeman kings of Britain.

And even if that uppity half-breed Tom Riddle was finally deceased, that only left the road to power less obstructed for a pureblooded aristocrat like Catesby. Lucius Malfoy's death was equally welcome, though Andrew would have preferred to find that blond strumpet Narcissa dead. Lucius at least had been good to share brandy and cigars with at the Dragon Club. His son was likely useless, thanks to the half-human trollop Tyler and the blood traitor Snape. 

There were so few of the old guard left. Anyone who had put their oar in behind Voldemort was now either dead, disgraced to society, imprisoned, or a heroic spy-traitor. Catherine Macnair, for all her faults, was likely the best ally Catesby would find –she had been traveling during the war and managed to completely miss Voldemort's recruiting and rise to power. Her uncle Walden was a sadistic fool with a vaguely unnatural fondness for certain kinds of animal; but Catherine was mostly alright, if a little flighty and oblivious. Andrew's deceased wife had once read in a letter from Catherine an inquiry as to whether 'this You-Know-Who has a decent spring collection out.' Mistaking the Dark Lord for a designer was the very peak of political insensibility, and it wasn't a lack of intelligence. Catherine could recite the names, positions and statistics for half of England's Quidditch teams, brew potions nearly as well as the traitor, cast more complicated charms than the average Master in the subject, and kept the most obscure, intricate set of account books on earth for her many investments and corporations. 

That was another reason for choosing to cast his lot in with Catherine. She was stinking rich, having decided that even if Muggles were inferior, it was no crime to use them as a sort of crop, cultivating and harvesting as one pleased. She was no slaver, no cannibal or headhunter, but something darker and unquestionably more fiendish. 

Catherine Macnair was a stockbroker, and she would help Andrew win his revenge.

**************************************************************** 


	69. Treehouse

Chapter Sixty-Nine: In the Stocks

"And you came to me, Cousin?" Catherine glanced up from the black, glowing Muggle contraption on her desk and smiled at Lord Andrew. "I'll be with you in a moment. Just let me check a few things."

A few taps on her laptop's keyboard and Catherine knew all she needed. She had called up an email from an old friend, Caitlin Pierce, detailing the latest adventures of the 112th under the command of the illustrious and eccentric Colonel Tyler. There was even a picture of the entire squad in full uniform. With digital photo editing software, Caitlin had circled the face of Mel Watling and typed in the bizarre message:

_'Friend of yours?' _

Catherine knew her old friend Elena instantly. She also knew what Andrew had done to his daughter, and that she was assumed dead. The Australian Pierce was even more clever than most people realized, but more importantly, she was a member of an underground organization even more covert than the Death Eaters, even more benevolent than the Tyler brothers, and seven times as mischievous as the fabled Marauders of Hogwarts: the Train Guards. Strictly speaking, the Train Guards were a small cadre within the much larger and older Order of Friar Tuck, a long-standing society of secretive do-gooders and 'Merry Men,' named after the only wizard of Robin Hood's company. Their history, however, was even more fascinating.

In 1856, a cracksman, or lockbreaker, named Edward Pierce, together with screwsman, or key specialist Robert Agar, had contrived to rob the South Eastern Railway's London to Folkestone express train of over twenty thousand pounds in gold. It was an audacious plan, requiring over a year of planning and various preliminary thefts, or 'lays'. They had paid off the guard, a man called Burgess, whose young son was ill and in desperate need of an expensive doctor's care. They succeeded in the plan and were all eventually caught, but Pierce escaped and Agar was merely transported to Australia. Poor Burgess died of smallpox in prison a few months later, yet his children and widow were mysteriously aided, as if by unseen fairy godmothers. Pierce was an honest thief, if nothing else, and so was his mistress. Burgess' ill son grew strong and eventually became a shopkeeper, married a girl called Elizabeth Finch, and had three equally mischievous children, all of whom got mysterious letters near their eleventh birthdays, inviting them to a strange school called Hogwarts.

There was no small irony in the fact that Richard Ian Burgess, age fifty-six, was a professor at the Agar Academy, which had, naturally, been founded by the son of his great-great grandfather's old cohort in crime. The greater irony was that his only granddaughter and star pupil was descended not only from Robert Agar also on her grandmother's side, but that her father was the great-great-great grandson of Edward Pierce. Richard Ian loved little Caitlin to distraction, and was excruciatingly proud when she robbed a corrupt conglomerate company in America of seventeen million dollars by hacking and clever use of derailleur viruses to send the money directly and untraceably to a host of well-deserving charities. She was twelve. Richard Ian was the current leader of the Train Guards, who were named for his unfortunate ancestor, and who were personally more or less responsible for 'just about _everything_ bad that happened to _someone_ bad' in the financial world. Catherine Macnair was another prize pupil, his former apprentice, and a fellow Guard.

Consequently, when Caitlin Pierce sent an email informing her old friend and former babysitter Cathy that she was thinking the author of 'Smut Goes To Rome' and the infamous ex-hooker Mel Watling might make splendid additions to the Train Guards, Catherine was inclined to listen.

And of course, when the distant cousin who had abused her old friend Elena Marie, who had therefore become the infamous Mel Watling, arrived, asking Catherine to contribute to the vengeful torture of the author of 'Smut Goes To Rome,' Catherine was inclined to tell him to fuck off.

This she did with a flourish, calling the guards to haul him out. It was so lovely being rich.

And besides, she had rather liked the Alleghenys' book.

For her own part, Mel Watling was having a splendid time. She'd gotten a screwdriver and some other tools from the house-elves and was quite happily helping Caitlin Pierce build a treehouse.

"A treehouse?" Ron had inquired, when they had asked him to help carry the lumber they had bought at a Muggle shop and Apparated with. "Er…why?"

"Because there's going to be little kids here, Ron. The little Tyler one'd like a treehouse, eh?"

"Yeah, but the baby's not even born yet…"

"No, but Little Donaghan and that cute little Southern boy are, and there are other kids on the way, like your brothers' kids. Besides, I'm bored and I want to build a treehouse."

"Mel?" Ron looked at the taller, giggling female.

"Well, you've got to admit, she does make it sound like fun."

"I was thinking we'd put it up that big tree over there, and have a rope ladder and a zip line to the window, so the kids can get from the one bedroom right to it. See?"

"That's got to be thirty feet up… Are you mad?" Ron squinted up through the sun-filled trees and then realized Caiti was grinning.

"Precisely why I made this," she explained, unrolling a huge, nylon net with leaves and such cleverly knotted into it. "It's called jungle net. If the kids were to fall, it would catch them, but since it's very hard to see, they wouldn't know that and would therefore hang on tighter. I've drawn quite a lot of plans." She handed the rolled-up drawings to Ron, who unfurled them just as Ginny, Harry, and Luna appeared. "Hallo, guys."

"I've got the nails and screws," Ginny explained.

"What exactly are we doing?" Luna asked.

"Treehouse," Ginny explained. "Caitlin designed it and I'm in charge of extraneous faculties –that is the term, right?"

"Ginny's in charge of the fancy stuff," Mel clarified, "Like the telegraph and the lights and stuff."

"Telegraph?" Harry grinned. "Sounds like a pretty serious treehouse."

"Listen, mates, it 'ent just a treehouse. It's also an aerial defensive post, but it's designed-" Caitlin thumped the plans, "to look like a treehouse."

"What's it defending from?" Ron inquired.

"It doesn't ruddy matter what it's defending from, just so's it _can_ defend," Pierce was beginning to look ticked. "Look, every auxiliary Aurory battery has got to have an aerial defensive post. It's code."

"Since when is the Shrieking Shack a…an auxiliary whatsit?"

"Since last week, when the UC declared that every Aurory or national fortress, or every building housing more than three hundred wizard children, _must_ have an auxiliary battery within four hundred yards. The residence of a consenting officer will do in peacetime, so we're fixing up the Tylers' house just in case. But none of you heard that! _We are building a treehouse."_

"Righty-day," Luna replied cheerfully, picking up the plans. "So…may I use the saw?"

Within nine hours, one of which didn't count because the builders spent it eating sandwiches, the basic framework of an impressive, if indistinguishable treehouse had taken shape. It was indistinguishable because Caitlin insisted on building it at precisely thirty-seven and one-quarter feet up, and in those thirty-seven feet there were many leafy branches to obscure the Aerial Defensive Treehouse from ground view. There were also no less than six webs of jungle net, as Mel was a bit acrophobic in trees, and also four capture drops. Capture drops, for those who have never had the memorable experience of visiting or attempting to attack an Aerial Defensive Treehouse, are squarish bits of jungle net with weights at the edges and corners, suspended from cables that disengage on command with the flick of a switchy-thing. Their job is to drop on enemies and capture them, hence the name.

The only problem with installing the capture drops in advance was that Ginny and Luna really couldn't be trusted, and Ron and Harry were each captured when they went down for more sandwiches. The walls of the treehouse were pre-assembled on the ground at Mel's direction to Caiti's specifications, and then tugged up with a system of pulleys that had been the first hardware installed, and secured to the floor platform with screws. The battery-powered electric drill Ginny borrowed from the Shack's garage was rather a lot of help with the screws, but the jokes Ginny made about 'screwing' to Harry so violently reddened Ron that Caitlin threatened to let Luna use the nail gun. Of course, everyone wanted a turn with the nail gun, so that quieted Ginny and Harry up, except for one unfortunate and inadvertent 'nailing' pun that caused Ron to laugh at an inopportune moment, fall from the tree, and spend three minutes suspended upside-down by his foot while the others tried to get him down.

The nailing of the roof

_-We, the editors, do apologize for any unfortunate mental pictures suffered from that phrase. It was not nice of us._

The process by which the nail gun was used to secure the roof took about an hour. First Ron and Harry held the flattest boards in place, then Ginny and Luna took turns nailing them down with the gun, while underneath, Mel tacked up the waterproofing and insulation. In the midst of all this furor, Caitlin wired the overhead light fixture and installed it. As soon as the insulation and inner paneling (this was one _hell_ of an Aerial Defense Treehouse,) were in, she and Ginny did the rest of the wiring while Ron and Harry installed the windows. Mel had to show them how and direct a bit, of course, which wasn't really surprising when she explained that at her previous residence the denizens had all helped with repairs, and of course, brothels do occasionally need new windows.

The locks for the side and trap doors were spelled very interestingly. Whenever anyone recited a specific, five-line password, the closest door would open. Or, if any blood relative of John and Cass Tyler (the spell took a drop of blood from each, which Ginny got by means of a clandestine eyedropper from Hermione and Severus' Wolfsbane experiments,) used the words 'What is that?' while in the bedroom to which the zip line was connected, the door would pop open and the handlebars would thump up against the window of the house. It was really quite convenient.

The Aerial Defense Treehouse had a lot of extra stuff that an ordinary treehouse wouldn't. Electric lighting, floor and ceiling trapdoors, rope ladders, a crow's nest at the very peak of the tree, some fifty-nine feet above the ground, air-raid siren, water reservoir and a steel box of emergency rations were all standard to the Aurory's requirements. The small-caliber machine-gun emplacement, the telegraph, the Morse light, the Rausschnell strobe, the collapsible escape broom in the green steel cabinet, the capture drops, the rappelling equipment, the Omniocular Telescope and Periscope visual reconnaissance system, the arsenal of small-arms and ballistic launch weapons, the perish-proof Instant Feast magical ration fridge, and, of course, the Really Rather Splendid Company's latest selection of charmingly realistic squirt guns, were all the result of Caitlin Pierce's considerable siege training and even fiercer case of 'look what I can do' syndrome. After all, she had a nearly unlimited budget. When Cass Tyler had agreed to let Caitlin build a treehouse, she had somewhat stupidly handed over the Gringotts key that guarded 'Smut Goes To Rome' revenues from sale in Asian countries and said "Live it up." It really was the treehouse that lust and madness built.

The whole shebang was painted a dull, flat shade of dark blackish-brown that matched the tree's bark, so that even in winter the damn thing was hard to see. In addition, the jungle net was the enchanted kind that the false leaves of which turned to match the season. There were even quite a few camouflaging spells on it. Finally, the treehouse was enchanted to maintain stasis even at a distance of years, so that no matter what, no matter when, whenever it was needed, the UC Aurory Auxiliary ADB (Aerial Defense Battery) number Two-twenty-one, codenamed the Tyler-Pierce Shrieking Shack ADB (or, more candidly by Harry, the 'Treehouse of the Lost Ark,') would be ready.

And when John Tyler saw it, he laughed his werewolf head off.

"Was this Cassie's idea?"

"No. The Aurory requires…" Caitlin recited her whole rationalization speech yet again and concluded with: "So we did."

"And the machine-gun emplacement is there…why?"

"Just in case."

"So you gave his kid an Uzi, Cait. Nice." Mel rolled her eyes.

"Don't be stupid, ya slutty bint. The clashy won't even work 'thout the password."

"Clashy?" Ron asked.

"Kalashnikov." Caitlin looked around at the blank faces. "AK-50. It's the kind of gun!"

"Well, the treehouse is very nice, but…I really would feel better without a machine-gun up there. If you can't take it off, could you just…not load it?"

"No prob, General," Caitlin sighed, bending the tiny, twiglike branch at the bottom that dropped down the rope ladder. "Be back in a snap."

As soon as she was out of sight, John looked at the others who had helped. They looked at him, and at each other, and then started laughing their heads off again. From high up in the trees, an Australian-accented voice was heard:

"I can still hear you lot!"


	70. Anecdotes

Chapter Seventy: Anecdotes

Once upon a time, in the early nineties, to be exact, a somewhat sadistic Muggle Studies teacher decided that it would be enlightening to force an entire class of pre-Aurors to form the cast of a Muggle musical, which she intended to then produce and direct herself. Unfortunately, her class was entirely guys, so she dragooned four female students into joining in the little experiment with the promise of a full quarter's credit. Two of the girls who agreed to it –almost nobody did- were Muggle-born, so it was a bit of a pointless venture for them, but they could sing on pitch, so the teacher decided it would be best to risk them wasting a little time relearning than to have the production turn into a total disaster.

It was thus, that in what was arguably the third worst production of _'Godspell'_ ever done, Katie Scarlett Beauregard and her best friend Cassie Alcott were subjected to the most disturbingly effective flipped-gender casting in Corey Academy's dramatic history. Katie Scarlett, for the reason that not a single guy there could hit the notes properly, played a weirdly Southern Jesus, and the eccentric Ms. Alcott was both an effective John the Baptist and a rather scary Judas Iscariot. (In that particular play, the same actor always performs both roles.) The same sadistic Muggle Studies teacher felt that it would be apropos for Judas to actually play the guitar for a certain number and provided a fairly horrible old acoustic 'piece of crap' for her poor actor, who, fortunately, had played since she was quite young. Ms. Alcott felt that Judas Iscariot, being, well, _Judas bloody Iscariot_, would never touch such an appalling instrument, and promptly abducted it over the one-week spring break –to 'practice.'

It was therefore thus that Cassandra Alcott utterly rebuilt the warped, third-hand, foreign-built disaster of a guitar, replacing virtually every part and making somewhat free use of the Carnegie Mellon University's wood and metal shops. The majority of the guitar's body became metal, she added an electric piezo pickup, a humbucker, a dimebucker, an internal shred switch, and a host of other decidedly un_-'Godspell'_-esque improvements. She even devised a switch system whereby she could use either pickup, humbucker _or_ dimebucker, or any combination thereof, the likes of which had never been seen on any guitar in the history of mankind. The effect of this innovation was that she could make the damn thing sound like as many as three guitars playing at once. She could also play it unplugged, whereupon it sounded merely acoustic, if a far sight better than it had before.

When the Muggle Studies teacher saw what Cass had done to the wretched instrument, which to her looked like a bit of sanding, some paint, and a couple of knobs glued on, she was impressed and offered to let the young pre-Auror buy it for what it had cost her: three dollars and twenty-six cents. Cassandra eagerly paid it and rehearsed the show acoustic for the remaining two weeks.

On opening night, she plugged the guitar in to an antenna jack, which connected it to one of the largest amplifiers money could buy and professors' daughters could borrow. A young professor, in fact, one who had graduated but the preceding year, was playing the keyboards in the pit, and he suspected that John/Judas/Cassie might be Up To Something. After all, he was a canny fellow who knew Ms. Alcott fairly well –better than anyone else, some said. Even he was not prepared for the wild electrical storm the pre-Auror let out of the seemingly acoustic guitar in the middle of the crucifixion scene. Katie Scarlett was expecting it, fortunately, and writhed in appropriate tune. In _'Godspell,' _Jesus is 'crucified' on a chain-link fence, and most actors play it as more electrocution than slow extermination. Katie Scarlett followed tradition, and with one of the actors surreptitiously casting sparkler charms and Cassie's guitar, the mostly Muggle audience was suitably terrified as well as moved.

And that is how Cassie Alcott was banned forever from Muggle Studies class at Corey, how John Tyler came to find guitars impossibly sexy, how Katie Scarlett Beauregard won the school Dramatic Award that season, and how the unfortunate Muggle Studies teacher developed her paranoid fears of chain-link fences, guitars, electricity and people from Pittsburgh.

Once upon another time, the year 2014 to be specific, a sixteen-year-old werewolf and her band, Serpents' Heir, played at a charity concert in Bulgaria to benefit the Josef Wronski Foundation. Instead of the Squier Werewolf she usually used, said real werewolf decided to take her mum's old guitar, a custom acoustic/electric job with a mostly metal body and a longer neck than was really necessary for even a bass. The thing was covered in autographs, scratches, a few blood stains on the upper and lowermost frets; and generally looked like what rock stars had in mind when a guitar was first called an 'axe.' It was also incredibly sexy when played by an attractive female, but the dear girl did not realize this.

The preceding act was a female chorale called something unpronounceable and even harder to spell in Bulgarian, which performed many folksy, traditional tunes, all of which sounded somewhat like drinking songs. The chorale, being mostly elderly witches, bored the audience a bit, and when the British, French and American girls took the stage, there was thunderous applause.

This was due to two factors. One, the girls were considered by many critics and teenage boys and even grown men of the period to be well on the pretty side. Two, their long-suffering road manager had forgotten to pack their 'suitable performing clothes.' Rather than play in their street clothes, which were all flowery dresses chosen by the drummer's mother, they simply played in their school uniforms.

Hogwarts school uniforms for girls, in case the reader has never had the distinct pleasure of seeing them, consist of shirt or collar, school tie, knitted or buttoned vest, and a pleated skirt, with black robes over. By some accident of unpacking, either the girls failed to entirely unshrink their clothes or they had outgrown last year's uniforms to a greater degree than they had realized.

It was thus that a lot of what could easily be mistaken for Catholic schoolgirls got up and played some of the most decadent rock n' roll ever heard in that particular corner of Bulgaria. Michelle Tyler singing 'Back in the U.S.S.R.' was bad, but Jen Weasley singing a sinful little Tori Amos ditty called 'Leather' resulted in no less than twelve Bulgarian gentlemen making donations in excess of a thousand Galleons on the spot. Once the frontman, Ms. Tyler, realized what was going on, she hastily conferred with the band and began to charmingly bait the enthralled males for higher donations. When some audience members ran out of money, belts and jewelry began to wind up in the collection baskets. A few even donated their pants, which were, by then, much too tight anyway.

And that is how Severus Snape nearly used an Unforgiveable on some two hundred innocent, if horny, Bulgarian wizards.

Once upon not so strange a time, unless you consider the kind of thing that was going on, which most people assume kind of stopped happening by the late 1930s –there was a girl named Elena Marie Catesby.

She had a little sister who was eleven years younger and therefore no help, an older brother who was twenty-some years her senior and therefore very little help, a mother who up and killed herself when her little sister was only six, which wouldn't have been so bad, except she accidentally did it in a place where said six-year-old little sister was the first one to find the still-bleeding body, and a horrible 'pureblooded pole-up-arse sonofabitch,' to use the colorful language of a contemporary, for a father. Her brother had the questionable but ultimately good sense to fall in love with a Muggle-born witch and married her instead of his vaguely eccentric arranged intended, who was actually rather pleased, as it meant she could marry the man she had in mind, who was also Muggle-born and frankly a lot more fun. And so it was that Andrew Catesby, Jr. changed his name in two ways, taking his wife's surname and shortening his first name to merely 'Drew (when we say a horrible 'pureblooded pole-up-arse sonofabitch,' we effing _mean_ it,) so that he became Drew Morgan, and that Andromeda Black married Ted Tonks. Drew and Andromeda, who, while distinctly pleased they weren't married to each other, were somewhat good friends, and they remained so for many years. In fact, Andromeda and Ted had a baby girl the same age as Drew's new sister and he prevailed upon his mother to let him watch Elena while Andrew senior was away on, again, questionable business. Little Nymphadora and Elena were never close, but they did meet a few times before Hogwarts and were somewhat more cordial than other Gryffindor-Slytherin pairs of little girls.

Since Drew had been rather spectacularly disowned by his father, half being kicked out of the family and half leaving it with a thumbed nose and a hand gesture, that left Elena and eventually, Maria Elaine Catesby to continue the family line.

_Alright, we the editors feel the need to explain a point. Two sisters named Elena Marie and Maria Elaine seem a bit…odd, don't you think? There's a reason. Lady Catesby was not only clinically depressed since sometime before her (arranged, as if you couldn't guess,) marriage, but she was also addicted to Dreamless Sleep potions and laudanum. That sort of dissolute lifestyle really takes bites out of creativity. And Andrew Catesby didn't really care what his daughters were called. They were daughters, after all, and his main goal for them was changing their last names, not giving them nice first ones. Okay? Everyone on the same page? Spiffy._

The chosen mate for Elena was one Davon Bole, elder brother of Derrick Bole and general horse's ass. She, to put it mildly, did not like this idea. One evening in the Slytherin females' dorms, while she was reading a book the ever-so-kind 'Dora Tonks had lent her for Muggle Studies and contemplating particularly bloody suicide, an idea struck her. And it was a _good_ idea!

…Well, to a seventeen-year-old girl, maybe, but we digress.

 The very next day, she went with her Muggle Studies class on a field trip to see a new Muggle film, which impressed her greatly and added some modern color to the idea.

She never returned from the field trip.

The book? _'Gone With The Wind.'_ Professor Snape gave it to Professor McGonagall, who read it and cried rather a lot over certain chapters before returning it to Tonks. The movie? _'Pretty Woman.'_

_We don't think we need to pursue the implications of _that_, now, do we?_

While wandering –no, walking the streets of London one fine midsummer's evening, now eighteen-year-old Elena (who had changed her name in spirit to Melanie Watling for reasons we can only blame on Margaret Mitchell and a little bit of that laudanum leaking through, perhaps,) got caught in the rain. An enterprising and elderly pimp by the name of –you know what, it's really too obscene to list…

In any case, said pimp took her in, offered her shelter and a job, and since she only looked fifteen, decided to keep the cops out by putting her in charge of the books for one of his Fleet Street establishments. He had one of the other 'girls' teach her the rudiments of Microsoft Office-

_Oh, _what?_ Pimps can't use Microsoft Office? Everybody uses Microsoft Office. Don't be ridiculous._

In any case, Mel showed a natural, or, more specifically, unnatural aptitude for all things computer. The aforementioned elderly-but-powerful pimp kept most of his books with carbon paper and fat ledgers, but when he saw how rapidly his new acquisition designed clever Excel spreadsheets, web sites and credit-card swipe systems, he turned all the old hard copies, accounts information and receipts over to her for data entry. After the 'working girl' who had gotten her started left the business to start up her own franchise-

_Yes, they call them franchises. It's an industry, after all._

-in another quarter, Mel began to overstep her bounds. She cleverly encrypted a program, which skimmed a modest, barely noticeable 0.3% from every incoming transaction and placed the funds in a new account, which only she controlled. Said account was used to invest in an up-and-coming little software developer, a clever coffee-shop entrepreneur, and a host of other small stocks. It was thus, that with a modest income of about £3 for every third trick turned in the greater London area and a series of intelligent investment decisions, Mel quickly earned three times her employer's net worth. She also owned stock in several very prominent companies. Since she had largely automated the finances of her boss's business, made more than enough to not require an income beyond what her stocks and embezzlements made, and didn't fancy turning tricks quite the way a few of her coworkers did, she had quite a good bit of time on her hands. She read, mostly, and eventually turned to fanfiction, internet RPGs, chat rooms, and even erotic web mastery to keep herself happily occupied. Mel made a great many friends in this way, and eventually linked up with a few other witches and wizards who also dug Muggle technology. She began to take more of an interest in the world she had abandoned, especially when a fanficker she met at WIKTT called Lady Cat began emailing her anecdotes about Aurory.

It was at the age of twenty-one that she made her move. She pulled out three things and showed them to her lecherous old boss. One was a CD-ROM she had burned with enough information to convict him not only of vice conspiracy but also tax evasion, another was a nice leather bowling bag, and the third was her wand. She showed him the first one first. As he goggled over the terrifying disc of hard evidence, she informed him quite coolly that she had duplicates hidden in lockers at every London tube and train station. In the event that she failed to call several friends each day at about ten o'clock with the password, they would take the CDs straight to the Proper Authorities.

Her boss asked her what she wanted.

"Total control and ownership," Mel purred.

"Of the Wet Beaver on Fleet Street?"

"Don't be stupid. I want all of it." Mel then handed him a printed contract. "I give you my solemn word, either your signature or your brains will be on this momentarily."

"You've been reading _'The Godfather,'_ I see." The old lecher chuckled. "How about this? I'll place you in control as my _caporegime_, will everything to you except what's necessary to keep me in peanuts, gin and women for the rest of my life, and when I die, you can have it all. I'll even tell my nephew not to challenge you."

"Oh, that wouldn't be necessary," Mel replied airily, setting a two-tone leather bowling bag on his desk. The pimp opened it and stared at his nephew's head.

_No, dear readers, Mel did not kill the nephew. He was riding his motorbike behind a lorry loaded with steel plates, one of which wasn't secured, and when it fell off, it worked as neatly as a guillotine. Mel happened to be passing the fruit stand the disembodied rider crashed his Vespa into, recognized his rather fag-a-licious jacket, and took the opportunity to acquire both a Prada bowling bag from an adjoining shop and the ultimate paperweight._

_In any case, the sight was more than enough to unnerve her boss._

"You can't do this."

"Honey pie, Ah jes' _did_." The Southern accent was another weird side effect of the _'Gone With the Wind'_ fixation, and she had cultivated it lovingly. "You ah gonna _sign_ that contract, or I'm gonna do the verah same thing ta you, savvy?"

With rather unseemly hurry, the pimp signed, initialing every page, made twelve copies on his deskside Xerox, placed them in envelopes addressed to his employed madams, licked them, sealed them, tucked them in the outbox, and promptly dropped dead of a heart attack.

_"Aw,"_ Mel observed, disappointedly fingering her wand. She had intended to use a minor hex to produce much the same effect.

And that is how come every third hooker in England works, indirectly, for Dumbledore.

A/N: My staff felt that some readers might be confused about the guitar terminology earlier in the chapter. Considering my staff consists of my editor, my little sister, and my pet cats, I think I can explain it a little. Looking at an ordinary electric guitar, such as those one sees on magazine covers, behind the strings you will notice a thick, wide plastic plate with six metal dots that look like buttons. That is a pickup. The button-looking doohickeys are what pick up (hence their name,) the vibrations from the strings and take them to the amplifier. Pickups come in three kinds: the humbucker, the piezo, and the dimebucker. Humbuckers are the kind you see on most electric guitars. Most have two. Piezoes are pickups usually added to acoustic guitars. The dimebucker is a relatively new invention. Instead of six little round doohickeys, a dimebucker has one long, thin one that picks up all six strings. It takes its' name from the guitarist who popularized it, Dimebag Darrell of Pantera, which gives you some idea, perhaps, of what the thing sounds like.

Another question I am bound to get is, is all that even possible? Three pickups are definitely hard to miss on any guitar. It would be very complicated to have all three work at once. Could any acoustic body support three different, interconnected pickup systems? Here is the answer: noone's really sure. I have an uncle who does experimental, crazy things with guitars, and he's only succeeded in getting a simultaneous piezo and humbucker onto an old piece of garbage I got him at a garage sale. There wasn't much space left when we closed the body back up, but then, we didn't _have_ a dimebucker to add. Those things are expensive, and since they're so new, it's unlikely you'll find one on an old, destroyed axe from the seventies. However, whether just out of misplaced faith in one's eccentric relatives or sheer wanting to hear what it'd sound like, I think it is. And of course, if one has a wand at one's disposal, a lot more is possible.

Which begs the question, why hasn't Arthur Weasley's department made rules about magicking instruments? Oh…wait…

-J. McN.


	71. The Beginning

Chapter Seventy-One: The Beginning

"It's absurd," the witness for the Left observed calmly.

"What's absurd is the current administration allowing dangerous demi-humans to run roughshod over good people, _decent_ people!"

"And is this an example of your goodness? Your decency?" The Left's witness was not the sort to raise his voice, ever, but his steady, even delivery and deep, serious tone were what many considered worse than any amount of shouting. Besides, the Right's man had offered enough loud-voiced protest to wear the tactic out. A calm, serious man was a novelty to the Twelve at this particular trial. "The term recognized by the United Coventry and therefore the diplomatic community of the world is '_semi_-human.' To imply by use of the diminutive prefix 'demi' that beings whose ancestry or trait makeup is not entirely sapien are of lesser humanity than common _homos sapiens_ is simply bigotry and ignorance of the first degree."

It was _amazing_ how calm the man was. One of the Twelve was actually slack-jawed.

"Call 'em whatever you like, Mr. Tyler, mixed humans are not entirely human. They don't deserve to be treated as full humans because they are _not!"_

"It strikes me that what this Court really requires is a definition of the term 'human,'" John remarked mildly. "The entire question at hand is one of semantics."

"Oh, look, the werewolf's been to school!" the Right's attorney mocked. "Your Honors, I will not allow an educated dog to muddy the waters of this Court any further with unintelligible political doubletalk. I move to dismiss the witness!"

"Overruled," the Thirteenth gently boomed. The current Thirteenth, a position also known as Moderator General, was a stout, African-American man in his late fifties with a voice like distant thunder. He did not vote with the Twelve except to break a tie, and instead kept order within the Supreme Court so that the Twelve could observe proceedings without mental interruption. "Mr. Tyler is entirely intelligible and until such resolution is passed to strip demi-humans of the right to testify before the courts of our nation, it shall not be abridged. Any further epithet on your part towards the witness, his condition, or his character will result in your being found in contempt of court. Continue, sir." John nodded politely.

"It is my opinion, and the opinion of several philosophy students I have known, that the true meaning of 'humanity' lies not in the test tube of blood, nor in the genealogy, but in the spirit." The Right's attorney rose and John grinned slightly. "I refer not to the 'spirit' as recognized by religion, but by the state of mind and tendency of action which all beings possess, in whatever form."

There was a soft mumble from the court reporters. This testimony, they could tell, was to be of great import.

"We refer to the actions of war criminals, to atrocities, as 'inhuman.' The true word, professors of language argue, is 'in_humane_.' I offer the hypothesis that either term will do. To act humanely is to act as a human. A good human would not slaughter another before the eyes of his children. A good human would care for the wounded, guide the lost, and offer assistance to any of his brother humans whenever it was asked of him. A good human, faced with a raccoon in the road, would swerve, so as not to strike the animal. A dumb animal, think of it. The raccoon is not the pet of the human whose car is headed toward it. The raccoon does not aid the human, as do the bees with their pollination and honey, as the cows with their milk, or as the horse with his strength. The raccoon is not a companion, as the dog or cat. In fact, to many humans, the raccoon is a pest. Some humans, in thinking of rabies, fear raccoons. And yet, the good human swerves in the road. He does it without thinking. Is it because the raccoon is smaller than he is? Is it because he does not want his grillwork splattered with a corpse? Or, can it perhaps be that he has been taught since childhood to do what is right? What is humane? What is _human?"_

"I object, your Honors. Sem- _demi_-humans cannot teach their children to _be_ human. They are not entirely human themselves."

"And again, your Honors, I beg the Court to consider the matter in terms of this new definition." John's voice had finally raised. "To be human is not to have only human ancestors. It is not to have a human body at all times. It is to act, to think, and to _exist_ as humans from the dawn of their evolution have striven to be. It is to possess that humanity which we define as humane. There are pure homo sapiens who do not. There are men who kill other men for no other reason than their skin color or their lifestyle or their country of origin. There are wizards who kill other wizards because of their ancestry. And there are men who claim such pride in being human that they seek to destroy what they look upon as threats to the gene pool." Raised? John's voice was echoing through the chamber, louder than the voice of any attorney past or present. His true fury had finally been roused. "The specists are so 'human' that they will commit atrocities, betray humane instincts, and act so far _below_ the _basest_ of what we call animals, that I scorn to accept _them_ as human. Your Honors, there is more humanity in the part-veela who writes checks to charities, in the hag who feeds the birds, in the goblin who walks miles to correct a six-Knut error in banking, in the werewolf who goes to war to defend the very humans who wish her dead –than there will _ever_ be in the specists who brought this suit before you!"

The Thirteenth raised his gavel to call for order, and then set it softly down. The entire chamber was too shocked, too awed, to have required it.

"N-no further questions," the Right's attorney gasped.

"Mr. Roark, your witness," the Thirteenth announced.

Roark was amazed. His hands shook as he stood up from the defense table. He knew why that Southern fool had called John Tyler as a witness. Tyler almost never spoke and it was widely believed that he didn't do it well. It was also believed, since his wife was so well known as a firebrand, that he was meek and mild. But Guy Roark had known Tyler at the Corey Academy.

"Mr. Tyler, is it true that you were once assaulted by specists in Tennessee?"

"Yes."

"What was the extent of your physical injuries?"

"I had a sprained ankle and some lacerations."

"Of your comrades?"

"My brother George's leg was broken, my brother Richard cut his arm and my brother Paul was beaten with a whip and had to have over fifty stitches on his back."

"Is that all?"

"No." John bit his lip a little. "My best friend split her knuckles on both hands."

"How?"

"She –er…fought our assailants."

"And where is that best friend now?"

"She's my wife, sir."

"And," Roark savored the question, "was she a werewolf then?"

"No, sir."

"The defense –no, we do not rest yet." Roark actually grinned. "What brings you to the United States, Mr. Tyler?"

"I was seeking medication for transformative insanguinide preeclampsia when I was subpoenaed to testify here."

"And do you regard that as an inconvenience?"

"Somewhat, sir."

"Why?"

"Because…" John looked reddish and Roark relished it. "My wife is expecting our first baby and I'd like to get back soon."

It was perfectly spoken. John looked shy, blushed, and yet still managed to exude pride and anticipation. It was the way any expectant father would have replied to such a question. It was human, and Roark knew that those present and seeing the trial on TV, reading about it in papers, and hearing it on the radio would all respond to it. No matter what the Twelve decided, the future of demihuman rights would be decided on favorably by public opinion, by way of the media.

"No further questions, Mr. Tyler. Have a safe journey."

"I don't believe I just saw that," Hermione remarked. She was watching the new TV in Minerva McGonagall's office, channel WABC, with Severus, the Headmistress, the Minister of Magic and the witness in question, who had come in looking for Severus and been pressed to stay. The TV had cut to commercial after the film showed John leaving the courtroom, and John in the present tense was blushing furiously. "John, you're…"

"The greatest orator I've ever seen," Severus observed in awe.

"For the most taciturn man in Hogwarts, you can certainly put people in their place."

"And I thought little Cassie was the political activist."

"So did I," a voice announced from behind the large couch Minerva had Transfigured to watch the trial. It was Cass herself, still looking peaky, but with an incalculable radiance beneath. "Darling…" In the length of a blink, John was at her side.

"I couldn't tell you…until I'd already done it…and then…"

"You wouldn't have needed to. I always knew you could."

The couple who proved daily that the terms 'lover' and 'spouse' were not mutually exclusive were just leaning toward each other when the commercials ended. Albus made a soft sound.

"Er…would you care to see the Court's decision? It may affect you both especially."

"Yes," Minerva agreed ardently. "The next war may be foretold by what those twelve judges say in the next five minutes."

"Well," Cass grinned, kissing John briefly before replying, "you'll have to tell us about it later, then."

"If we aren't busy."

"After all, I'm rather sick of wars."

With that kind of thinking, none of the three couples bothered to watch the rest of the news. It may have affected the future, but it didn't affect the 'now,' and no version of CNN could compare to the fond practice of affection.

Besides, the next war, like so many, would be the next generation's fight.

Late that night, John had another of his weird moments of prophecy. Half-asleep herself, Cass just managed to scribble it down on a bit of scrap parchment before curling back against him and drowsing back to somnolent peace, in spite of the baby's apparent fondness for dancing.

'NONE KNOW THE TRUTH OF THE FIRST. NONE KNOW THE TRUTH OF THE SECOND. THE THIRD IS KEPT FROM HER TRUTH.  
THE SECOND'S TRUTH IS FOUND IN BLOOD AND VIAL. THE FIRST'S TRUTH IS FOUND IN SPELL AND GROWTH. THE THIRD'S IS GIVEN BY SHE WHO WAS MOST HURT AND MOST HEALED BY IT.  
WHEN ALL THREE TRUTHS ARE KNOWN, THEN SHALL ALL BE IN READINESS. THE LOVER, THE KNIGHT, AND THE TEACHER ARE ALL OF A BLOOD WITH THE THIRD. THE PALADIN, THE LOVER, AND THE KNIGHT ARE THE MATES FATE HAS CHOSEN, BUT HEARTS MUST CHOOSE AS WELL.'

"Hearts and knights and paladins…no more King Arthur for you two, loves," Cass mumbled, dropping the parchment absently next to her night table. "G'night, family."

The End.


End file.
